Nth Hunger Games: Beginnings and Ends
by packman23
Summary: SYOT. OPEN. As the 102nd Hunger Games looms 24 tributes once again enter the dreaded Hunger Games, ready (or not) to take on the arduous task of overcoming scores of traps, the machinations of the vicious Games Makers and, of course, each other. Does your tribute have what it takes to survive or will they have the honour of dying a slow and painful death?
1. Prologue: Modern Alchemists

_A/N: Well, after what feels like ages (over a year) life has given me a break. I'm back, I'm itching to write and I'm (hopefully) better than ever, so let's have another SYOT! If your wondering where the form is, it's on my profile so go check it out. As always read and review and I hope you enjoy the 102__nd__ Hunger Games!_

* * *

**Prologue: Modern Alchemists**

_Nyrro Blighthaven, age 31 (HG-TV Presenter)_

_Three time Caecillius Laurels winner for best upcoming television personality_

It's 3 o'clock in the morning. The sun hasn't even thought about rising yet. Lights shimmer and flash gaudily outside the window of my twentieth floor penthouse suite as the last few drunks and gamblers and late night workers stagger their way home for an early night.

Tomorrow's the Hunger Games. I should be asleep.

But instead I'm making hot chocolate.

Don't ask me why, but it calms my nerves. I feel relaxed when my stomach is full and it's not like I was going to sleep tonight anyway. I have to practice my lines. I'm supposed to be opening the Games tomorrow with Democritta Nyx.

Feel free to, complement me. Congratulate me. Go on, everyone else does.

_'Oh Nyrro that's wonderful! I'll be sure to look out for you!'_

_'Oh Ny-Ny you're so young! What an honour!' _

_'Congrats kid. Beats presenting the weather!'_

Yeah, yeah it does. No one likes the boring old weather forecast. Everyone loves the Hunger Games. But you see, that's the problem. No one cares about the weather forecast. No one watches it. If some idiot screws up on whether it rains or snows, who gives a damn? It's not like anyone has to go out in the rain in Panem anyway. If it gets bad people just stay indoors.

But everyone watches the Games. Everyone and their deceased grandmother watches the Games! Every insipid reporter and brainless paparazzo hangs on your every word and watches your every twitch. If you so much as smile at a tribute for too long or sneeze at the wrong time your face will be on the cover of every gossip magazine from here to District Thirteen and they'll be declaring you a District sympathizer from now until the next Quell.

Sounds like it could never happen, huh? Well lets just say that, since Caesar Flickerman retired from the Games twelve years ago there has been a constant stream of new presenters and celebrities taking up the reigns.

I'm number twelve, and no one thinks I'll last, not even my lovely fiancée.

"Ny-Ny, come to bed."

Speak of the devil. Well, uh, guess I shouldn't say that. Els would murder me.

"Just a minute Els!" I call, "I got some stuff I need to sort out."

From the bedroom down the corridor I hear the sounds of sheets being lazily flung aside as Els fumbles for the light switch. There's a soft click and I am bathed in a soft pink light. "Ny-Ny?" Els calls, "Where are you?"

"In the kitchen." I sigh, not bothering to look up as Els slouches into the room.

"Oh, Ny-Ny," Els tuts, exasperated, "Not again." From behind me I feel a gentle tug as a pair of slender, ebony arms wind their way under my own arms and around my chest, her heliotrope tattoos matching perfectly with the black ink patterns that wind their way up my chest and neck and then down my back. I smile inwardly, but the vice in my chest stops me from relaxing. The metaphorical vice obviously. The Capitol can be into some strange stuff, I admit, and I'm hardly the most conservative but I'm not that crazy. I don't have an actual vice in my...

You know what, I'll just drop it.

After a few seconds of standing like that, with me bent over a saucepan and Els hugging me from behind, I heave a sigh.

"Why did I say yes to Moros?" I growl, "I shouldn't have agreed to these Games. I should have just said no. I should have walked away, but I was too greedy and too stupi..." Before I can finish I feel myself tugged away from the saucepan I am watching and spun around to face Els.

Elisandra Measurewick looks resplendent in the delicate silk dressing gown which I bought her when we first met in the live audience of the 93rd Hunger Games interviews. We'd barely finished being kids then and it was a tad too big for her, but she sort of grew in to it. And she tells me I'm a terrible judge of size!

"You," Els begins, jabbing me in the stomach to emphasize her point, "Will be a wonderful presenter. You're funny, you're popular, you're handsome, you're the most wonderful man I've ever met and I'm sure the audience will love you."

I frown and shake my head, the dragon tattoos on my cheeks and neck swaying like they always do when I do that. Seeing I am unconvinced, Els eyes harden.

"Look," She says earnestly, her voice falling a couple of pitches, "Do you know why Moros Parcelsus asked you to present the Games?"

"Because I upstaged him at the last Quintum Award?" I give a half hearted grin and wince as Els playfully knocks me upside the head.

"Because he sees the potential in you that all of us see but you somehow miss. He knows what you're capable of. You're like a young Claudius T..."

"I'm not a young Claudius Templesmith." I mutter, "A thousand me's wouldn't even be close to an old Claudius Templesmith."

"But you are!" Els cheers enthusiastically, throwing her arms around my neck and jumping on to her tiptoes, pulling me forwards into a kiss. As our lips meet I feel my worries lessen. It is as if some of that metaphorical vice has been sucked out of me by our kiss and lost somewhere between her body and mine. With a smile I place a large hand on her tiny shoulder and push her back on to her feet, pulling away.

"You shoulda been a talk show host," I tell her, "You're a good arguer." She smiles at me with a shake of her head and pats me gently on the back.

"Oh Ny-Ny," Els giggles, "One of us in show business is enough. I mean someone's got to raise little Thalia, haven't they. We can't afford a nanny or an Avox and you know my parents are itching to get their hands on her just so they can say they were right about you."

I laugh. A real laugh, not one of those phony stage ones I've practiced that Els swears make me sound crazy. "Baby," I tell her, "Once these Games are through I'll be able to buy you a District full of Avoxes."

"That's nice hun'," She smiles only half listening as she flounces back to bed. Turning in the doorway, she beckons me after, "Oh and baby?"

"Yeah."

"Turn of the stove. I don't want to have to clean out the carpets tomorrow because one of your late night culinary experiments exploded again. It's the Reapings and I need my rest."

* * *

The limo arrives for me before I've finished breakfast and, with a bottle of hair gel and my sequined violet coat under one arm and my daughter Thalia riding on my shoulder, I rush down to the car and throw the door open.

"Geez man," I mumble sleepily, "Five more minutes. I was up late last night and I haven't even finished my toast."

"Oh well," A choked but slightly lilting voice croaks, "By all means continue. Your breakfast is _so _much more important than a century old national institution."

I jump, noticing for the first time Games Maker Moros Parcelsus curled in to a large chair at the far end of the limousine, his pupiless eyes glimmering playful at me from behind a pair of milky white sunglasses.

"Sir!" I yelp, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it I..."

I don't know what it is about Moros but, for some reason, he always makes me feel uncomfortable. I don't think he's ever said an unkind word to me but the old man always puts me ill at ease.

"Stop gibbering Blighthaven," Moros chuckles hoarsely, his ancient wrinkled skin curving into a smile "I didn't complain when you called my niece a snake-skinned rat at last years Quintum after-party, and that was after you stole that award from me! Do you really think I'm going to complain now." I nod in gratitude, climbing in to the limo and waving goodbye to Thalia and Els, but Moros raises his hand to stop me and flashes me a lupine smile. "They can come if they must." He tells me, "There are some non-alcoholic drinks in the fridgiculus if your daughter's thirsty."

"Th-thank you sir." Thalia murmurs nervously as she clambers in to the seat next to me, "But-but I-I'm not thirsty."

"Please call me Moros. Or Mo," Moros' grin grows about five sizes, "Uncle Mo. Now that has a nice ring to it. What do you say Blighthaven? I gave you this job. A once in a life time experience. Honorary uncle is the least you could do in return."

Thalia buries her face in my shirt and hides as much of her face as she can behind her turquoise hair. I give Moros a worried smile.

"Sorry sir. Thalia's a little shy around new people." I try to explain. I try to coax Thalia out of her little ball by stroking a soothing hand through her hair. I'm normally OK with her insecurities, but Moros is a very important 'new person.' If he takes offense my career is finished.

"No matter." Moros grins with a shake of his head, showing a full set of pointed silver teeth, "She's a child, she makes mistakes. Doesn't she, Blighthaven?" I nod my head vigorously in agreement. "And what of your lovely wife? I must admit I would have expected someone like you to be dating Halisha Agrippa or one of the Dannike sisters. A singer or an actress, you know."

Next to me Els bristles, grinding her teeth. I try to catch her eye but, before I can stop her she has bent across the cabin and gripped the senior Games Maker by the scruff of his bejeweled puce blazer. For a moment I wish I had married an actress. They don't attack Games Makers.

"Now listen here, you." Els glowers, her voice taking on that squeaky quality it only does when she is really angry. "I may not be some prissy celebrity bimbo with a waist the width of their wrist like Halisha Agrippa or those Escorts of yours, but I am Ny-Ny's fiancée and I am as much woman as he will ever need! He does not need you playing match maker with some line of god damned bikini models! Do I make myself quite clear?"

Moros looks Els up and down taking in every feature. The blue hair with small fluorescent lights spun into it, the deep purple eyes and ebony skin, the tight white dress that I personally consider way too revealing but she apparently had no trouble buying an exact copy of for our four year old daughter. Moros looks to me, slowly opens his mouth and I prepare myself for the experience of being thrown out of the limo and into oncoming traffic.

"She has spirit!" Moros declares, kissing Els hand and offering her a drink. Satiated, but still sour, Els sits back in her chair and allows him to pour her a glass of something red and sparkling. "I have to ask 'Ny-Ny' why haven't you married this wonderful creature yet?"

"In-laws." I shrug, scratching the back of my neck nervously, "We thought it was better to just be a couple for a while y'know, give Thalia the experience of being the flower girl."

"Wonderful." Moros declares, clapping his hands together with glee. With the tone of his voice however, it is hard to tell whether he is pleased, or being sarcastic "Well then, that's the pleasantries over. To business!"

I straighten up, although I didn't know it was possible for my body to get any straighter, and let out a breath I had no idea I was holding. "S-sir. Yes of course."

"Relax Blighthaven," Moros chuckles, "You have nothing to fear, at least not from me. I'm on your side. You may want to watch out for Judex and Nathaniel, though. They love to give the new employees a hard time." I shiver at the thought of the two most powerful Games Makers in all of Panem towering over me like a pair of demoniac giants, judging me, waiting for me to slip up. I heave a gulp and Moros sighs and tilts his head.

"I was joking, Blighthaven." He tells me, "If you must know the only reason I came down here was to make sure you weren't being a fool and acting like a child on their first day of school, and I'm afraid to see that my fears were indeed grounded. Now chin up man, this is ridiculous. Why anyone would think we had entered you in to the Games and not a group of those simpering cretins from the Districts."

"I'm sorry sir," I respond hearing my voice crack slightly from nerves, "It's just a lot to take in. I mean no one since Flickerman has lasted more than a year in the role and, and this is the greatest opportunity of my life. I know if I mess this up I'll never work again."

"He's right sir," Els pipes up, spitting the 'sir' a little, "It is a big commitment."

Moros nods, "I know Blighthaven, believe me I do. I was as nervous as you were when I first came in to the fold. For a week I simply wandered around after the other Games Makers, drinking Vatican martini's and laughing at their jokes. I thought if I did anything myself I'd be putting my head on the line. But then one day a man took me to one side and said to me the words that would save my career, and do you know who that man was? Why none other than the Head Games Maker, the late great Seneca Crane! And do you know what he said to me, Blighthaven?"

The car grows silent at the mention of the man who stopped the Mockingjay. Els' mouth falls open, the chauffeur slows the car and looks into the wing mirror in interest, even Thalia, overcoming her usual timidity, looks up and gives Moros her full attention.

"N-no sir." I say as Moros smiles in pride.

"Do not think of yourself as an executive, Paracelsus," Moros recalls, the smile on his face so large and filled with nostalgia that for a minute he looks impossibly old, "That is not what you are. You are more than just some pathetic public servant. You're a hero, a modern day alchemist. Your job is to take a necessary evil, the massacre of hundreds, if not thousands of children, and turn it into gold. Media gold. Everyone will love you. Every man, woman and child in all of the Capitol will thank you for what you do and revel in the story, no, the world you create. Even the Districts, while they fear you, will honor you as a god. Remember Paracelsus, you are doing what is right. You are doing what must be done for Panem, for the human race, to survive. Remember that and you will never fall short."

I sit in stunned awe as Moros sits back in his seat. Thalia is leaning so far forwards, so enthralled with the story that, when the car turns a corner, she tumbles out of her chair and has to be helped, sniffling, back to her chair.

"Or at least that's what I remember him saying," Moros smiles slyly, "My memory sometimes plays tricks on me, Blighthaven, but I think I've made my point. Now, look sharp everyone, the Templesmith Tower is coming up."

I turn my attention to the gigantic silver spire behind us which we are speeding towards and watch it grow until the car comes to a halt outside the main entrance.

"Mama," Thalia yammers as we are helped out of the car by the chauffeur at the head entrance of the Templesmith Memorial Tower, the center of the Games since the death of the titular presenter, "Where are Daddy and M... Ma... Uncle Mo going?"

"Work sweetie," Els smiles as a greeter in a sparkling white uniform escorts them away to the family waiting room, "Daddy has a very important job this year."

"Well," Moros says as the paparazzi swarm around us, asking inane questions and flashing cameras, "Your daughter is already calling me uncle. Looks like she's warmed up to me quickly, Blighthaven."

"She just can't pronounce your name." I tell him, a new feeling of confidence filling my body as we step in to the building.

Moros laughs. "See, I told you you'd be perfect for this job."

As we turn the first corner, in to the heart of the building, I am immediately pounced on by a tiny, buxom young woman with frizzy pink hair and a smile so wide that I honestly believe she would be capable of swallowing my head. She's wrapped in a tiny dress, which is really closer to a couple of straps of tape and is so revealing that it makes my Els' choice of clothing look like a full body suite. Her heels are so high I am worried she might plummet to the ground and brain herself and her inquisitive blue eyes pierce in to me with the sort of unfathomable curiosity reserved for only the hyper intelligent or unbelievably stupid. Given her overall appearance, I'm forced to believe she's the latter.

"Nyrro!" The girl titters, "Oh my goodness it's so good to see you again! Oh but you probably don't remember me do you? Hi, I'm Democritta Nyx! Remember we met at the Caecilius laurels! I presented the awards and I was all like 'the winner is Nyrro Blighthaven' and you were all like 'I'd like to thank everyone I've ever met like ever blah blah blah' and it was really super duper boring so I made sure to avoid you for the rest of the night! But now you're here and you're not boring and we're working together so even if you were still boring I wouldn't be able to avoid you and... ooh I like your dragon tattoos! Are they new?"

"Err, hello Ms Nyx." I say, somewhat taken aback at the enthusiasm of my particularly... jumpy co-host. "Actually I got these when I was eight." I smile, pointing to my neck, where the two black dragons rest. "But these are new," I pull up my trouser leg and indicate a scorpion and a pair of snakes circling my ankle, "Do you like them?"

"Ooh." Democritta stares at my ankle and bobs her head, her entire small body shaking with enthusiasm. "They're super!"

I smile, making my way to the dressing room. I actually came in my suite, so the change takes only a short time, which is probably lucky because Democritta, Moros and the whole team of stylists working on my face and nails spend the entire time bending my ear, reassuring me or congratulating me on my new found fortune or just babbling inanely. When I finally leave after what feels like an age I am, by all accounts, fed up with the sound of the human voice, which is a real shame, since I'm about to be presenting in front of a sizable audience of the things.

"Blighthaven!" I spin on my heel as the crisp, cool voice of the Head Games Maker fills my ears.

"Mr Agathodaimon!" I call, in my element in a room full of people paying a tension to me, "Howdy!"

"Good morning." Judex Agathodaimon dismisses me with a wave of his hand and the slightest hint of a frown. His voice betrays nothing, as always, except for mild boredom. "Yes, yes. Tall, good. Dark, good. Handsome..."

"Debatably." A woman to the side of him comments and I grimace.

"Quite. Confident. Maybe too much? Is it off putting?" He looks around as if expecting a response, before promptly interrupting the woman when she opens her mouth to answer, "My thoughts exactly. Hmm, he's handsome enough to attract the teenage female demographic but not handsome enough for the opposing male demographic to feel jealous of him. Piercings. Tattoos. Hm, yes quite acceptable. How do you speak?"

I raise an eyebrow and give him my most crowd pleasing smile, "Shouldn't you know? I mean, you hired me."

"An attempt at humour? Good. That should peak the ratings." Judex gives a glimmer of a smile. "Mr Brighthaven, do you know what you are here for?"

"To present the Games?" I frown. Seriously, is this a trick question?

Judex nods. "The Games are comprised of two parts, practical and media centered. We are in charge of making sure the tributes suffer and know the pain of the Capitol's revenge, you are here to package it. You are replaceable but you are not expendable. We'd prefer it if you don't embarrass yourself."

"If its alright with you sir." I grin, "I'll do my best."

"Good," Judex turns away from me. "Avox! Water!"

Someone in a white suit calls us to make our way to the stage and as I do so, I hear a sound coming from behind me. A whirring and a clunking of gears grows louder and louder as whatever is making it comes closer. I realize as the thing draws even with me that 'it' is actually a he. A man in a wheelchair to be exact. The wheelchair's occupant, a man who looks oddly familiar to me, grips my hand with his own and stares up into my eyes.

"Nyrro Blighthaven?" Even after all these years, I still recognize the voice, still as clear and calm as ever, although it has grown quieter with age. I nod, too stunned to say anything as the old man squeezes my hand with his own.

"Good luck." Ceasar Flickerman beams, his words more a command than a mere congratulation.

"Thank you sir," I nod, feeling a tear of pride in my eye, which I swiftly wipe away as I make my way towards the stage, Democritta skipping giddily beside me. "And may the odds be forever in your favour."

Caesar smiles warmly but sadly, releasing my hand and wheeling himself towards the guests booth, joining my family and a host of famous sponsors and Games Makers.

Els was right and so was Moros. I can do this. Hosting the Hunger Games is what I was born to do and I'm not going to let any of them down. Not Els, not Thalia, not Moros, not even Judex or Nathaniel, even though they've never done anything for me.

We step out into a wave of noise. Reaching out I grip Democritta by the waist. She yelps in surprise as I pull her into a tight hug and wave to the cheering audience who go insane at the spectacle. The crowd whoops as cameras buzz around them, flashing pictures that will be splashed across the covers of every tabloid from now until the end of time.

"HELLOOO PANEM!" I roar in perfect unison with the beautiful Ms Nyx, "HAPPY ONE HUNDRED AND SECOND HUNGER GAMES!"

The crowd cheer back, their voices mingling with ours to send up a cry that resonates across all twelve Districts and reverberates off of the heavens.

"AND MAY THE ODDS BE FOREVER IN YOUR FAVOUR!"

_A/N: And the Games begin. Please remember the tribute form is on my profile, so check there and don't hesitate to review! I look forwards to your support and hope you'll enjoy reading this as much as I enjoy writing it!_


	2. D1- The Obedient Servant

_**From the Desk of the Games Makers:**__ Welcome to the 102__nd__ Hunger Games, a semi-reboot of our previous series 'The Nth Hunger Games'. Todays tribute is sponsored by wealthy Capitolite Emmeline C. Thornbrooke. We hope you enjoy your government mandated entertainment and, as always, remember to drink lots of Coke-Cato, the only District Two produced beverage that is fully endorsed by the Hunger Games!_

* * *

**Chapter 1: The Obedient Servant**

_Amelie Iris Fitchley, age 16 (D1 Female)_

_Don't call her Ammy_

The house is always quiet at this time of year, which is odd because one would expect that it would be busier than ever what with all the extra work the master is expected to do. But, for some reason, the master has always slept in on the day of the Reapings, and this year is no exception. It seems that my family are the only people in this house who are expected to work any harder to accommodate for the celebration.

The master, by the way, is Marvelous Awesome, ex-Victor and mayor of our fair District. And yes that really is his name. Please don't laugh, he's rather touchy about it.

The large house is silent as the crypt as I make my way along the corridor, listening to the shuffling of my shoes and the sound of my own breathing. I suppose if this is a crypt that makes me the gravedigger, with a mop for a shovel and a sponge for a lantern. I should really write that down.

A small cascade of dust and cobwebs falls from the walls with even the lightest of touches, and I cough as a little falls into my face, slipping the scarf I wear off of my auburn hair and around my mouth for protection.

Blinking my eyes rapidly, to dislodge a few specs of dirt, I stand back and take a swipe at a filthy alcove with a mop. Once the sea of dust and dirt is dislodged I pull my scarf back over my hair and take a minute to bask in the feeling of accomplishment. Next I get to work scrubbing and polishing the small golden statuettes that balance on the top of a nearby side table. The whole process takes about twenty minutes to complete but, once it is done, I stand back, smiling proudly at the precious trinkets, which gleam softly in the moonlight.

I have always believed that being a Victor in the Games is a double edged sword. On the one hand it gives all sorts of opportunities and a wealth beyond imagination, but on the other it almost gives too much. With all the junk the master and his family have accumulated over the years I sometimes wonder how they would cope if we were not around to help him.

As I turn the next corner I am surprised to find a solitary figure standing on a stepladder, scrubbing away at the frame of a painting. A shock of droopy blond hair hangs limply in front of his eyes, making him look somewhat disheveled, but his suite is impeccably clean.

"Papa!" I yelp, almost leaping into him in excitement, dropping my supplies to the floor with a loud clatter.

"Amelie," He regards me briefly before turning his attention back to the painting, "Do be a little quieter. You do not want to wake Mistress Isabelle again."

"Sorry." I mumble. We remain silent for a matter of minutes, before inquisitiveness gets the better of me, "So, what are you doing here?" My papa should be in town at the moment, preparing the people for the arrival of the Escort and making sure that the Victors have decided which Career will have the honour of volunteering. Normally the master gets his way, thanks in no small part to my papa's excellent skills of persuasion, but that won't happen if papa isn't present.

"Your mother and I decided to switch commitments." My father explains, placing his cloth down and picking up a wire brush from a table beside him, "I get so little time to see you nowadays. I wanted to at least spend some time with you before you volunteer. This could be my last chance you understand?"

"Yes, papa." I turn my mind away from such grim thoughts and instead towards the thrill of victory. I am not going to lose. How can I? I am the best Career of my age in the District after all.

"Hold my ladder please." Papa requests. I quickly obey, placing the mop and sponge on the floor and hurrying over. "So tell me Amelie." Papa asks, staring down at me, "How is your writing?"

"Wonderful," I smile wistfully and papa nods.

"Planning on writing a Games diary for when you're a Victor?" I shake my head.

"The Games is a good inspiration," I explain, "But I don't just want people reading my work to hear about my life. A good fantasy is always more interesting than something they can just watch on repeat on their televisions."

Yes I know a lot of Capitol reviewers, or at least the ones in the books papa has managed to buy for me, say that fiction is a dying art and history is what we should really be writing but, honestly, I couldn't care less. Besides, once I win the Games everyone will want to buy anything I write anyway so I might as well write what I love.

"I don't suppose you still have that notebook your mother bought you for your first Reapings?" Papa still doesn't look at me, but I answer as quickly as I can anyway.

"Of course I still have Mama's notebook," I say, slightly indignant at the implication that I might have thrown it out, "Or at least I did," I giggle nervously, "Henry took it. I tried to get it back, but he's hidden it somewhere, so I'm going to wait for him to give it back. Then I'll kill him."

"Now Amelie," My father tuts, "You know your brother means well. Junior just has a... creative way of showing his love for your work."

"Yes," I sigh, "And I can certainly create a few ways to get it back off him, but it'll require removing fingers."

"You are not cutting off your little brother's fingers." My papa grimaces at the thought, "Although it would be good practice."

The two of us work in silence for about an hour, papa working slavishly over the same large painting while I tiptoe around the room. I try to concentrate on my work, but a niggling doubt still sticks at the back of my mind. I open my mouth to say something, but think better of it and concentrate on the vase I am cleaning and bite my lip.

Eventually, however, I can't take it any more. "Papa?" I begin, trying to sound calmer than I feel.

"Yes Amelie." He sighs, looking slightly annoyed as he turns away from the painting. I briefly consider saying nothing, but I have his attention now, if oly for a moment. It would be foolish not to follow through.

"Are you proud of me?" My father frowns for a moment, stepping away from his work and raising a spindly hand to my cheek.

"Of course Amelie." A soft smile flickers on his lips, "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well," I shiver, "I'm so young. Most of the Careers volunteering this year are eighteen and they've had proper training, which means I might not win. And if I do not win the Games," My voice falters at the thought, but I manage to compose myself and continue, "Well then, I'll be a failure and you might not love me anymore."

Papa smiles sadly, slipping my scarf off of my head and running his fingers through my hair. Slowly, he wraps his other arm around me, drawing me into a tight hug. He's always been an awkward hugger and one of his arms digs uncomfortably into my ribs as he pulls me in, but I don't mind. He's always done this, every time he hugged me, since I was a little girl. In fact I find it reassuring knowing that, even if I've changed as I've grown up, my father is the same as he always was.

"Amelie Iris Fitchley," Papa's deep voice booms close to my ear, "Don't think that. I'd never, never consider you a failure even if you died on your plate and you shouldn't think that either. The master chose to champion you because you are a victor, not some petty weakling, and you did it all without some good for nothing trainer hanging over you, which is more than any of those cocky brats from Two can say. Why if anyone so much as implied that you were a failure if you didn't win... well, I might just have to take a leaf from your book and start removing fingers." He releases me, our moment of father-daughter time ending almost as quickly as it began, and pushes me to arms length. He gazes into my eyes with the sort of mournfulness that I think parents must always feel when watching their kids grow up before their eyes and then turns back to his painting. "I think I hear Mistress Isabelle rising. Fetch her breakfast, please. Work can't stop just because the Games start."

I smile slightly as I scurry away towards the kitchen, leaving my father alone in the dark and dust of the old corridor.

* * *

By the time I have finally finished making her breakfast, Isabelle Awesome is nowhere to be found. I search the house in vain and finally spot the older girl at the back of the garden surrounded by training dummies and weapon racks. The black haired seventeen year old holds an axe aloft, savaging an unfortunate dummy while my younger brother, Henry Jack Junior, stands on the side-lines and cheers. I shake my head, placing the breakfast platter on the ground, and crouch in the long grass, beginning to sneak towards them as quietly as I can. It's always more fun to see the look on Henry's face when I catch him slacking off.

"I can't believe your dad chose my dumb ol' sister over you," Henry gripes, "Why do you think that is huh?"

"Oh she's not dumb," Isabelle smiles airily, "Dad just thinks she's better than me for her age and she's pretty. That's a big draw for sponsors you know."

Henry sticks out his tongue and gags. "She's not pretty," He splutters, "She has a face like a District Five."

District Five? I think as I clamber out of the long grass and march towards him. Oh, he is so dead.

"You," I grimace, stepping up to the eleven year old and jabbing a finger into his stomach, "Were supposed to be helping me with Mistress Isabelle's breakfast. Instead I find you out here, gawking at her while she trains. It's completely inappropriate."

"Oh simmer down Ammy-I," The mayor's daughter giggles and blows a lock of hair out of her eyes, "HJ was just watching me train and giving me encouragement. If you ask me that's a nobler cause than making breakfast. I mean, I could just get my own food."

"Mistress please," I sigh, gripping Henry by the ear and dragging him over towards me, "We're your servants. It is our job to care for you. It isn't our job to spend our time... ogling you while you practice and shouting out inane comments about how much more skilled or pretty you are than me." Henry blushes and I give him a dirty look.

"Stop calling me Mistress. I've told you, like, a bazillion times, call me Belle," Isabelle smiles, "Besides it's not his fault. He's just going through a stupid phase. I remember a certain twelve year old servant of mine who used to sneak out in the summer instead of doing her chores because she knew the Career guys practiced shirtless when the weather was hot."

This time it is my turn to blush furiously, while Henry takes the opportunity to slip out of my earlock and scamper up a tree. Isabelle tugs a dagger out of a nearby tree and tosses it to me. I catch in mid air and she beams.

"Come on then Ammy-I," She titters, "Let's see why daddy thinks you're so great."

"Mistress Isabelle I really can't..."

"I told you," Isabelle twirls a dagger out of her sleeve, "Call me Belle. Now come on. Let's spar!"

"Ma'am it's not proper..."

"Fight me and I'll stop calling you Ammy-I." Belle trills. I shake my head and throw my dagger on the ground.

"Mistress you really can't expect me to..." Belle suddenly gives a cry, springing in to me and pinning me to the ground with roughly the same force as I imagine a tonne of rocks would exert.

"Fight. Me." Belle grins wildly, "Or I will end you and enter the Games wearing your skin so people think I'm you!" With that she scoops my dagger off the floor and pins it into the back of my blouse before leaping up. "And that's an order! Come on, I'm not going to beat myself." She winks at HJ and tosses her hair as I remove the dagger from my blouse and stagger to my feet. Belle launches forwards, and I ready myself. She slashes at me with her own dagger and I stumble backwards, recovering my footing quickly and taking up a fighting stance. She swings her hilt into my face, but I take it and slash at her in response. I swing low but Belle bends back to dodge, and this gives me the opening I need.

I clasp her hair, tugging her head forwards and kneeing her in the face. Then, slipping my leg behind her knees and tripping her, I force her to the ground. Next I place my foot on her hand, applying just enough pressure to break her grip, but not enough to hurt her too much. With a smile I toss her forwards, gripping her own knife in my other hand as she pitches onto the ground.

"Belle!" Henry squeals, slipping down from his tree and rushing over to her. Belle grins and clambers to her feet on shaky legs.

"Are you OK Mi... Belle?" I ask, gripping her under the arm to steady her, "I didn't go too far did I? I'm truly, dreadfully sor..."

"See HJ, told you your sis was good!" Belle giggles cutting me off, before wincing as she feels a bruise blossoming on her face, "Owie. That stung Ams. Go a little easier on me next time."

"Mistress, you said if I fought you you'd call me my full name." I say, raising an eyebrow.

"Nope," Belle says, batting her eyelashes at me and marching off towards the house, "I just said I'd stop calling you Ammy-I!"

As we pass the breakfast platter I had placed on the ground before, Belle stoops down and retrieves it, tucking in with a seemingly unquenchable fervor. She grins as we enter the house, hooking her arm around mine and marching me through in to the master's quarters.

It's an area I don't usually go unless our parents require extra help. As the servants children we spend most of the day in a small, one room hut built into the side of the mayor's house. We don't have any beds or chairs and the only place to wash is a hose round the back so there isn't a great deal of comfort or privacy, but we make it work. The only problem really is boredom. Practically the only things to do are write or train, so that's what I've spent most of my life doing. I've tried to convince Henry to give both a go but, as of yet, he's only really shown competence with a club, which doesn't take much skill, and he refuses to even attempt writing, preferring to spend his time with the master's children or his friends.

"Dad!" Belle calls as she steps into the porch, dragging me with her, "Can Ams and HJ stay for breakfast?"

"The servants' children?" Our District's lean, tattooed and shockingly blond mayor smirks, as he steps up behind us, causing all three of us to jump, "But of course. It would be an honor to dine with District One's next Victor. Who knows, you might even be mayor some day Miss 'Ams'."

"Amelie please, sir." I curtsy with a polite smile.

"I prefer Ams. Rhymes with hams." Mayor Awesome beams, his blue eyes sparkling with youthful energy. Clearly this is where Belle gets it from, "So, how is training treating you? Think you're ready for the Games?"

"As I'll ever be sir." I curtsy again and the mayor bobs his head enthusiastically.

"Excellent, excellent. I have every faith in you. But, then again I have every faith in your other." Awesome nods sagely, "Ron is entering one of his sons this year, don't you know. You remember Ironside Sheen, Belle? He came to your sixteenth birthday party." Belle doesn't look sure but I remember them. The Sheen's have come to every one of the mayor's parties since I started acting as a waitress for them. The middle one, Glister I think his name was, is only a couple of years older than me. I remember thinking he was cute when I was a preteen but, as I got older and got to know him better, I realised he was actually a total creep. I remember particularly vividly a Reaping celebration a couple of years ago where I was serving drinks. He called me over and asked me if I'd like to go somewhere more private so the two of us could get to know each other.

He didn't ask for a drink but I gave him one, right in the face.

My parents haven't let me serve at a party since.

It's probably the same boy, I think with a slight frown as I tuck in to my toast. I hope he's not still the same moron he was back then.

I spend the rest of our short meal in silence, waiting to be spoken to or have a gap in which to say something. However, Marvelous and Belle talk almost incessantly, leaving only a few gaps for mouthfuls, which are either filled by the other or by a short, glorious, moment of quiet. Eventually the master stands, which is our cue to stop eating and stand too, ignoring whatever is left on our plates. Marvelous giggles at the sight of the two of us, standing stock still in our dusty white servants clothing, waiting for instruction with our plates still piled with food. The master turns to Belle.

"Belle, would you please find Ams something suitable to wear? One of your nicer dresses, maybe? She can hardly volunteer wearing those rags."

"Daddy!" Belle whines, but her father shuts her down with a wave of the hand.

"Now, now dear, I'll make sure you get it back. Anyway, it'll be your turn next year, you can hardly begrudge Ams a nice dress for her big day." Grumbling, Belle takes me by the hand and leads me off to try on outfits. A fate that I can only describe as a thousand times worse than death and thoroughly bemusing.

* * *

It feels like hours before I am standing in the sixteen's section of the town square, my body forced in to a dress that is really the wrong shape for me and my feet pushed in to the least practical shoes in existence. Up on stage, Mayor Awesome is coming to the end of his speech. It's a good speech but, then again, my father is a superb writer. I can tell he wrote it because it's too formal for Awesome. Words such as 'henceforth' and 'indeed' just don't sound right coming from the mayor's mouth. It looks like some of the longer phrases are actually causing the poor man physical pain, his lips aching as they play a losing game of linguistic gymnastics. With a short bow and a gasp of relief that's just loud enough for everyone to hear it, Awesome steps back over to the other Victors, and welcomes to the stage our Escort, Maxine.

"Hi District One!" Maxine cheers as she prances about between the two huge glass Reaping balls, "It's super to be here today with all of you! Are we all going to work really hard to make sure that District One takes home the gold this year?"

The crowd stands dumbstruck for a minute before bursting into applause anyway. Maxine beams, reaching for one of the balls, "Alrighty then District One. Let's see who our lucky girl is. Fingers crossed it might be you." She gives a wink and a little squeak as she reaches one of the balls and plucks out a name.

"I volunteer!" I shout before the name can even be looked at, rushing out of my section as quickly as I can with these heels. No one is surprised. All the Victors have known I would be volunteering for weeks.

"Oh a volunteer! How wonderful everyone!" Maxine's voice is breathy with excitement as she holds the microphone down to me, "What's your name honey? Say it nice and loud into the microphone so the people at the back can hear." She squeaks again and I stare, somewhat taken aback.

"Err... I'm Amelie Iris Fitchley and I volunteer for the Games."

"Super! I'm sure we'll be the best of friends Amelie."

"Amelie Iris please." I mumble, "Only people who know me call me Amelie."

"Nonsense." Maxine replies, "You're in the Hunger Games, dear, everyone's knows you now!"

Before I can respond she has turned back to the Reaping ball and is reaching out for another name.

"I volunteer!" Maxine's fingers don't even touch the ball as a tall, muscular blond in a fine suite marches out of the eighteen's section. It's Ironside Sheen's son, just as the mayor said it would be.

"And what's your name, darling?" Maxine asks, so giddy with joy that she can barely form the words.

"Glister. Glister Sheen." The boy's grin is wide, but his green eyes look uncertain as they scan the rows of people before him, "But darling's fine."

"Well then." Maxine smiles, clapping her hands together enthusiastically before gripping me by the wrist and pushing my hand into Glister's, "District One, please give a big round of applause for your tributes Amelie Iris Fitchley and Glister Sheen!"

Glister grins at me as our hands meet. I turn my head, not wanting to look him in the eyes. Glister's grin flickers slightly but it returns just in time for him to wave at the audience. The two of us smile and wave and point at random people in the crowd and pretty much do anything to make sure that the Capitol remembers our names for long enough to send us support. He reaches out and tries to pull me into a hug, but I jerk him away. I'm not playing one of those true love gambits. They only work in stories.

"I know you don't I?" Glister asks as the two of us are escorted off the stage and towards the tents where we'll say our farewells. I nod. "Yeah you're the daughter of Mr Finchley, no Fitchley that's it! The mayor's servant!" I nod and Glister gives a low whistle. "No wonder I recognised the name! Yeah, I remember. I can't believe it, I haven't seen you since..." I nod and gesture for him to go on as realisation slowly dawns, "Oh, right. Guess you hate me huh?"

"I don't hate you. I'm just not endeared to you."

"Yeah," Glister smiles sheepishly, "Sorry."

"Don't be," I sniff, "It was improper of me to act that way."

"Waste of a good vodka, huh?" The boy shakes his head, "Seriously, if there's anything I can do to make it up to you..."

"You could let me win."

"Something tells me I won't be doing that. But hey, if you think of anything reasonable just let me know, OK."

Glister leans over to ruffle my hair but I push his arm away, slipping past him and into my tent. I'm glad that he doesn't follow me, instead shrugging and stomping off to his own tent.

"Amelie!" Somehow my family beat me to the farewells, which means they probably ran here while I was on stage. My mother and papa wrap me up in their arms as Alexa, my little sister, clings to my legs. She's too young to really understand where I'm going or why and I have to admit I'm glad about that. I wouldn't mind her knowing I'm going to be a hero but, to be honest, I'd rather she didn't find out I was planning on killing people. She's just a kid, she doesn't need to find out just yet.

We cling to one another for a while, until the three finally let me go, my mother continuing to stroke my hair.

"Come back safely, my dear," She instructs, "Don't make too many enemies and listen to everything that the master tells you. He's been through this before and he knows what he's doing. If anyone can get you home safely it's him."

"Mother," I sigh, gently peeling her fingers off of me, "I'm coming home. Don't worry."

Henry approaches me as our mother retreats holding something tightly to his chest.

"Umm, I had Belle hide this for me," He mumbles, revealing my notebook and handing it too me, "But we thought you should, you know, have it back for the Games. As a token or something. I know you weren't going to write about the Games but, if you could, it'd give us something to remember you by if..." His voice trails off. For a minute we stare into each other's eyes and then his arms are around my stomach, tears streaming down his face.

"Don't worry Henry," I coo, resting my chin on his head as he cries into my chest, "I'm a Career, I can take this. It'll just be a few days and then I'll be back in District One. I'll be fine."

I continue like this until he is dragged out by the Peacekeepers. As my family leaves I sit down, slipping a pen out from under my scarf.

Time to become a legend.

* * *

_Hey there Hunger Games fans! It's time for..._

_**Nyrro asks: **__'If you were Reaped, how do you think you would react and why?'_


	3. D1- The Lover Reformed

_**From the Desk of the Games Makers: **__The following __tribute has the support of Mangesboy01 the corporate backers of Panem's number one casino. Located in scenic Chariot Square and sporting only the finest of District One imported wares, it is the perfect party destination for all, whether looking to shoot some slots or simply spend a romantic dinner away from the kids. The Games Makers would also like to take this moment to remind you of the Capitol's complete social superiority and maybe gloat a bit. You don't get casinos like that in the Districts._

* * *

**Chapter 2: The Lover Reformed**

_Glister Sheen, Age 18 (D1 Male)_

_Mom cut his hair until the age of 16._

Some things you've just got to do. Some things are too important to be left for tomorrow because if you don't do it now you'll regret it for the rest of your life, however long that might be.

I look down at the ring in my hand and then slowly turn my head, my gaze drawn to the girl who lies in bed next to me, her blond hair cascading over her face, rippling softly with each breath. Her body fits perfectly against mine as she lies there breathing quietly, her head and hand resting on my chest.

_Go on, _a little voice inside my head urges, _wake her up and ask her already, you know you want to_. Yeah, I smile to myself, I do. It would be the best way to wake up in the history of forever and it would make this day perfect for her, not just me.

But I don't wake her. Maybe I'm an idiot, maybe it's because I know she'll be grouchy if I wake her early, maybe I'm just scared. God, I don't know why I don't nudge her I just... don't. I can't, not when there's still this uncertainty hanging over my head.

I need to know that my parents support us. I can't just drag her into a family who don't want me to be with her, all because they're too nearsighted to see what she means to me.

I slip out of bed, holding her up so she doesn't crash on to the mattress and slowly lower her down. She mumbles in her sleep and hugs a pillow as I pull on my shirt. I'll let her sleep. Being able to sleep in a bed this nice is a rare thing for anyone from Poorside, particularly ones from large families. Heck, she doesn't even have her own bed back home, she sleeps on the floor with her whole family outside the jewel mine where she works, just like all Poorside children. It'll be a nice enough experience for her to wake up without a bunch of kids digging their knees into her.

I pull on my jacket and adjust my tie, tiptoeing out of my room and swinging the door shut, as quietly as I can, behind me. I hurry down the steps, expertly dodging the squeaky floorboard as I make my way down from the second floor to the dining room.

Yeah, we've got a three story house. Cool, huh? Most District One families don't even have the money to afford a second floor, particularly if they're paying for two kids to go through the Academy, which means buying weapons, training dummies and matching tracksuits to make us look cool when we're doing Career training. But, then again most District One families aren't the Sheen's.

What do you mean you don't know who we are? Seriously? Well let me explain it in a way you Capitolites can understand. You ever bought anything from District One? Well thank dad for that. Ironside Sheen is responsible for keeping the trains running between District One and the rest of Panem and adding the finishing touches to some of the items that pass through. With the money and connections he makes, he's practically Capitol!

"Hey! Slow down ya git!" Jest's voice drags me back to reality as I skid into the dining room.

"Ray, watch your language!"

"Ah c'mon mom, it ain't even a proper swear. I say way worse all the time." My brother complains.

"Not in this house you don't," my mother responds. "You may think you're independent but you'll always be my little boy and I don't want you forgetting that."

He gags theatrically as I slide in behind my seat.

"Morning mom, hey Jest." I greet them.

"Hey squirt," Jest grins.

"Good morning Glis'," my mother replies, placing a plate of bacon and eggs in front of me. "Did you sleep well?"

"Ymph." I reply through a mouthful of food.

"She's up there isn't she?"

"Busted." Jest chuckles, leaping the counter and grabbing a slice of bread, which he eats plain.

"Nm." I reply, my mouth still full of food.

"You've always been a horrible liar," Mom sighs, "Now Glister, this has to stop. You've lead this girl along too long. You know how it is for Poorside girls. She can't spend every moment thinking about you when she needs to be working to keep her family afloat. You have to end this."

"I'm not leading her on." I reply firmly.

"You say that every time." She scolds, "Yet you've never had a relationship that lasted more than four months."

"Yeah but this times different!" I retort, "She's special! We've been dating for nearly six months now."

"New world record!" Jest roars, and mimics cheering, my mother sighs.

"That as it may, you're just not mature enough to deal with..."

"Yes I am. And I am because she helped me, mom. She changed me."

"No dear I don't think she did." My mother looks downcast and, for a moment, I can see a sort of sadness in her eyes I don't think I've ever seen before, "She thinks she did, and so do you, but she didn't. People don't change just because you want them to, not in six months, not in twenty years."

I look from mom to Jest, who is drinking milk straight from the bottle, and shake my head. There's no way he's going to give me any support on this. My eyes travel to the ring still balled in my hand and sigh, pocketing it.

"Where's dad?" I ask.

"Ou' in the fields." Jest replies, "Training Gar'. Seriously Glis' if 'e were 'ere d'ya really think I'd be?"

Dad and Jest haven't had the best of relationships since he was eighteen. Dad had wanted him to get a job in administration, but things didn't pan out and he ended up dropping out of school and enrolling in a factory. Dad never forgave him and, because of that, I almost never get to see Jest. He's not even invited to visit on most holidays and, even when he is, dad gives him a wide birth.

Jest seems OK with it, but I personally think it must suck for him, being ostracised from the family like this. I don't think I'd be able to take it if it were me. I'd crack under the pressure.

"Oh that reminds me, Ray," Mom begins as I hurry out the door, "When are you planning to pop the question to that lovely Stellar girl?"

"God mom, yer such a hopeless roman'ic. I keep tellin' ya we ain't da'ing. I jus' live with 'er..."

I knew dad would be out training Garnet. It's his training regime. Every day Gar' has to train from four till eight and then get breakfast. The only reason me and Jest don't have to do it is because I need to be rested for the Games and Jest was 'too much of a coward' according to dad to be a Career.

"Dad!" I yell as I enter our garden and find my father and fifteen year old brother Garnet sparring with old training swords.

"Ah, Glister!" my father bellows, turning his huge form to face me. "Good to see you buddy! Come for a little last minute practice."

"A-" I open my mouth but dad cuts me off.

"Great!" he tosses me a sword. "There. See if you can't give Garnet a run for his money."

It's not a fair fight and he knows it. Swords are probably my weakest weapon and Garnet is a pro with them. Within minutes he's disarmed me and I'm nursing a stinging wrist. My dad raises an eyebrow, picks up my sword and throws it back to me.

"Come on Glis'!" dad shouts. "You're the best in your year. I know this ain't your first choice but give it another go!"

This match ends the same, as does the third. The fourth attempt is even worse, as I don't even land a hit on Gar' before he spins his wooden blade into my legs, knocking me to the floor. On the fifth try, however, I finally manage to best Garnet, sending his blade into a nearby dummy. I stand back, grinning with pride as my dad pats me on the back.

"Now that's more like it," dad nods. "Not bad eh Gar', just as long as the other tributes give him a couple of goes to get to grips with 'em." He barks out a laugh and Garnet chuckles.

"You're getting better Glis'," Garnet smiles weakly, "But your grips off. Just don't grab a sword in the Arena and you'll be fine."

"If there's any justice they'll have an axe." My father nods sagely, "Now come on, you two. Reapings."

"Dad," Garnet groans, yawning, "Reaping don't start for another two hours."

"Well, we'll be early then." Dad smiles smugly, "Victors always get there early. We'll help set up, it'll be good practice."

Mom joins us as we march in silence back through the house. Jest is nowhere to be seen. I guess he probably heard dad coming and scrammed like he always does. It's a shame the two of them can't get on better.

I take the excuse of freshening up as a chance to check my room. She's still there, curled up in my blankets.

I could ask her now, gently wake her and slip the ring on to her finger, but it'd wouldn't be right. I'm in too much of a rush right now to make it all romantic and junk. But I can't just leave it and do it tomorrow now can I?

Tomorrow I'll be miles away in the Capitol, about to fight to the death with a group of child murderers I've never met before. What if I die? Then she might never know how I feel. She might think I was just using her, just like mom and Jest.

Well I won't let that happen.

I'll talk to dad about it. That's what your supposed to do isn't it, get the father's blessing?

I mean, it's not like I've been keeping her a secret. He know she exists, he's just trying to pretend she doesn't. But I'll make dad see. I'll make him accept our love!

Straightening my tie and slicking back my hair, I make my way down to the front door.

"Finally, the man of the hour arrives!" Dad booms, "Come on, Gar' and I were starting to get impatient. We were planning on leaving without you, weren't we buddy?" Dad thumps Gar' on the back and the boy grins nervously.

"Good luck. Wish it was me but y'know, I'll get my year."

I have difficulty meeting Garnet's eyes as he says that, but I grin at him nonetheless. I can't bring myself to tell him what I mean to do. Even if he's tall for his age he's still just a kid. He wouldn't understand.

We walk in silence for a while after we set off, dad leading out in front and the rest of us following behind. Eventually I pluck up the courage to approach him and, breaking off from mom and Garnet, I break the silence.

"Dad? Can I talk to you for a minute..."

"'Course. What d'ya wanna talk about?"

"I was hoping we could talk," I look behind me at Garnet, who has one hand draped over mom and the other gripping an old training sword, "You know, in private." My dad raises an eyebrow and stops dead in his tracks.

"Velvet, you and Garnet carry on ahead! Me and Glis'll catch up!" Dad yells to mom, before turning to me, his expression hardening once he is sure the pair are out of earshot, "Now what was it you wanted to talk about."

I scratch the back of my head, "Well it's about the Games. I..." How do I put this? "Well what I'm trying to say is... I don't know whether I'm ready for, you know, for all the, err, the... stuff. I guess?"

"Nerves huh?" Dad smirks slightly, "Don't blame you. Volunteering's probably the hardest thing a kid like you ever has to do. Sticking yerself up there in front of everyone. It's daunting, but you need to get over yourself. You wanna relax just try imagining everyone naked or something."

"It's not nerves dad," I sigh, "It's, err... well it's this girl, see."

My father's face falls, "Give me strength. You're still on this? I thought I told you, training is more important."

"Please, just hear me out..."

"No," My dad growls, burying his face in his hands, "Glis', the Games isn't a hobby, it's a commitment. You can't just run off with some floozy and train in your spare time. That's the kind of stupid thinking that gets kids like you killed."

"But that's why..."

"Once you get home you can have any woman you want! Heck, they'll be throwing themselves at you. Why settle for some Poorside nobody when you could have a Capitolite, or a cute young victor. I hear Victory Mavericks' still single."

"I don't want anyone else," I retort, "I want her. And- and if you won't support us then forget you. Screw you and screw your Games! This is something I've got to do and- and if it means giving up my shot at fame then so be it!"

"Why do you have to be so impulsive? If it means that much to you just wait till you get back." Dad snarls, pushing his face up close to mine.

"But what if I don't come back? I need her to know how I feel today!"

"All this fuss over some gold digging floozy?" Dad's voice is low and deceptively calm, but it's the calm before the storm.

"Dad please, she's not just some floozy. She's more important to me than anything in the world!" I retort, "You should understand that! You gave up the Games!"

"I didn't 'give up' nothing!" My dad roars raising his hand back, and for a moment I am sure he's going to punch me, "I was going to enter the Games and marry once I won! I had it all planned out, and do you know what happened? Those idiots picked that gangly prick Awesome to represent us! And now look at us! He's mayor and I'm running the godforsaken trains! Do you know how that feels?"

He jabs his finger at me and I flounder under his glare, "No dad I-"

"And I hope you never do! I dedicate all my free time to training you for the Games so you can do better than your old man and you repay me by throwing it back in my face?" He seethes, pacing back and forth in front of me, "Well no dice! You will volunteer, Glister Sheen, and you will forget about that girl, or so help me I will drag you onto that stage myself! I am not having you treading the Sheen name into the mud and standing up every person in the District just because of some pathetic whim about some pathetic whore. Understand?"

"Yes," I sigh, hanging my head in defeat, "I understand."

"Good boy." Dad places a ham of a hand on my shoulder. "Now you need to keep focused. She's just not worth giving up the Games, buddy. I mean, there are plenty of good looking women in the world, right? And most of 'em are better than her. Who knows, you might even meet a proper Capitol girl to settle down with while you're in the Games. I hear some of them are real beauts, once you get passed the green hair."

I force a smile. He doesn't get it. He thinks I'm just after her for her looks, but that's not it at all. I want to tell him that, but there's no point prolonging a fight I'm not going to win, so I find myself agreeing with him. "Sure." I nod meekly, "Yeah, I'd like that. Thanks dad I think I feel... better."

My dad grins and thumps me on the back. "You won't regret this, buddy."

I already do.

* * *

The square is packed by the time we get there, but the Peacekeepers have yet to start sorting anyone into sections. Instead people just mill about, acting like its a normal market day. Parents bustle around in small groups, chatting to one another while little kids rush between their legs, swiping at each other with toy swords, spears or axes. Up on the stage a group of twelve year olds, Career trainees by the looks of them, scurry back and forth, setting up microphones and sticking up posters as their grizzled trainer commands. One of the mayor's aides stands to one side of them, talking to a group of muscular men and women who are easily recognizable as the teens depicted on the posters. They're our Districts victors and I can name every one.

Here at District One we like to decide who volunteers in advance. Way back in the Twelfth Hunger Games, some idiot volunteered on someone else's year and it sparked a riot where a bunch of kids were killed. The Capitol ate it up, but the rest of us realised pretty quickly that we'd never be able to win if our tributes started killing themselves before they even got to the Games so now the mentors get to decide who they want to take with them.

This year it was the mayor's turn to decide, and since he knows my dad, I was a cert for tribute. He didn't even turn up to the judging ceremony before choosing me.

"Glister! Hey Glis'! Over here!" I grin as I spot Belle Awesome flouncing towards me, her dark hair bouncing with every step.

We used to date a couple of years back, but it was sort of on and off and nothing ever came from it, which was a shame really because she's a nice girl. Bit of a ditz though. She still occasionally forgets my first name and I don't think she ever learnt my second.

Taking the opportunity to escape my dad, who is engrossed in a conversation with the parents of one of Gar's friends, I hurry over to her.

"Good morning Miss Awesome," I smile, bending down and kissing her hand. "How are you this fair Reapings." She giggles.

"Knock it off you goof," Belle pulls her hand away and I wink, "I get enough of the silly formalities from my servants."

"Whatfor dost thou mean my lady," I ask still bowing, my voice an overblown mockery of a Capitol accent. "Mine speech hast ever been thus."

Belle giggles and playfully bats me upside the head, "C'mon, quit it!"

"Of course," I smile, straightening up and fixing my tie, which is slightly askew following my argument with dad. "Volunteering this year?"

"Nah," Belle coos. I breath a sigh of relief. I don't think I could kill one of my exes, even if they would have no trouble offing me. "Daddy thought I should leave it till next year. You know, get a year of practice. How about you?"

"I'm pretty sure my dad would kill me if I didn't volunteer. Better to take my chances with twenty three kids than that guy."

"Dads are stupid," Belle agrees, bouncing around as she talks.

"So, how's life treating you?" I ask. "Still single?"

"Yeah," Belle smiles sadly, "How about you, still with whatsername?" I nod and she sighs deeply, "So we're still friends without benefits then?"

"'Fraid so," I reply.

She sticks out her lower lip in disappointment and stares at me with big puppy dog eyes. "Is a good luck make-out session out of the question?"

"Yep," I snicker. "You're cute, but I'm a one woman man now." Belle bursts out laughing, "What? Come on, what did I say?"

"Oh sorry," Belle wipes a tear out of her eye, "I just, hemff," she covers her mouth to stop her laughter, "Just never expected to hear you, of all people, say something like that. You were always so... polygamous. I guess you're really serious about her then?"

"Of course. Dad isn't happy about it," I sigh. "He doesn't want me to get distracted from my training."

"Funny how he was OK with you dating me," the mayor's daughter snorts dismissively.

"I don't think he ever forgave me for breaking up with you," I sigh. "He was so pleased about being an in-law to the mayor and then we just went and ruined it for him."

"Could be worse," Belle teases, "I could have had you executed or something. I hear the son of Five's mayor did that to a girl who dumped him once."

"I'm kinda glad you didn't."

"Personally I think I took getting dumped rather well, actually," Belle nods. "I believe I'm one of your few exes who's still speaking to you."

"You're one of my few exes who didn't find me snogging the face off some other chick thirty minutes after I started dating them," I admit, rubbing the back of my neck.

She laughs, and is about to respond, when a droopy haired man in a suite approaches her.

"Mistress Isabelle," the man mutters quickly and quietly into her ear, "Your father requests your presence, immediately."

"But I was just chatting to..."

"Immediately ma'am." The man reiterates, "Your brothers and sisters are already making their way over."

He turns to me, "I suggest you find your section, sir. It wouldn't do for one of our tributes to miss their own Games because they were too busy... chatting."

He stares pointedly at me, raising an eyebrow. I grin apologetically and hurry over to my section.

I'm standing there for about an hour before the Reaping actually begins, but it's not like I'm bored. Practically everyone who passes me wants to congratulate me or shake my hand or ask me about myself. Most of the kids want to know if I have any advice for training they can use and some of the girls even proposition me for dates. I eat up the praise, answering every one with a smile and a wink before passing on to the next one. In fact I'm so caught up in the chat that I don't even notice that the Reapings have started until an excruciatingly peppy voice blares out over the crowd and bursts my eardrums.

"Alrighty then, District One! Let's see who our lucky girl is."

Maxine. I hate Maxine, with her shrill voice and her stupid purple and yellow striped skirt that makes her look like a circus tent. I don't see why District One needs an escort anyway. The tributes literally choose themselves.

As if to illustrate my point, a girl in the sixteen's section thrusts her hand in the air and volunteers. It takes her a while to get to the stage (she doesn't seem comfortable in high heels) but, once on stage, she introduces herself as Amelie Iris Fitchley and smiles nervously out at the crowd. Her name seems familiar to me, but I can't quite put my finger on it and its not like I have time to think too much about it.

"I volunteer!" I roar as Maxine turns to the second Reaping Ball and rush on stage to the deafening cheers of all around me. As I hurry up the stage I search the crowd, looking for the woman I hope to wed, but her face is lost in a crowd of screaming teens.

"And what's your name, darling?" Maxine raises the camera to me, her smile revealing a row of glowing pink braces that are really, really nasty.

"Glister. Glister Sheen. But darling's fine." I throw her a wink before returning to scanning the crowd.

Where is she? Where is she?

I can see my father, standing as close to the stage as he can, a proud grin on his face so wide that for a moment I worry his head could split in two. In the fifteen's section Garnet whoops and cheers, slamming his hands together in riotous applause while, behind him Jest rests against a railing, still chatting to his girlfriend Stellar despite the din.

I can see my entire family, but the one person I really want to see is nowhere in sight.

"District One!" Maxine screams, "Please give a big round of applause for your tributes Amelie Iris Fitchley and Glister Sheen!"

As our hands are pressed together I take a moment to assess my district partner. She's stunning, even by District One standards, busty and tall with wavy red hair framing a freckled, heart shaped face.

If I wasn't already dating and I didn't have to kill her I might actually be tempted to tap that. As it is though, she should be easy enough to get rid of. She doesn't look particularly confident. I don't think she realises, but she's blushing heavily, probably because of all the eyes on her, and that damages her chance of getting the die hard Career sponsors. On top of that she can't be particularly strong. Even if she is, I'm stronger. Thank you testosterone.

As we are helped off the stage I try to start a conversation with Amelie, but she doesn't seem too interested in talking. She doesn't exactly shut me down, she's just not the warmest of people and every time I try to get near her she jumps a little and scurries away like a startled rabbit. I guess my infamy proceeds me. Amelie definitely seems to remember me as the womanizing jerk I was up until a few months ago. As she dodges out of my way and into her tent I sigh. I was hoping my District partner would be more amicable. Never mind, I guess a distant partner is easier to off anyway.

_So I guess this is my life,_ I think as I slip into my tent and slump in my seat, _I've made my father happy, but in doing so I've given up on the thing that matters most to me._ God I'm an idiot. I'd be surprised if she even bothers to come and see me.

"You still awake?"

Oh thank you irony! I stare up at Luster's gorgeous smile as she floats into the room and throws her arms around me. The time we spend together, listening to each others heart beats can only be a couple of minutes, probably less, but it feels like an eternity. My breathing softens as I fall into Luster's embrace and she falls into mine. I revel in the smell of the expensive perfume I bought her on our last date as I comb my fingers through her soft, silken hair.

"So," I say as the two of us pull away from one another, "I guess this is it."

"It doesn't have to be," She replies with a shake of the head.

"My dad doesn't want us to be together," I explain, "If I come back he'll just pair me up with some rich girl as soon as I get off the train and that'll be it for us."

"You don't have to do what your father says."

"I can't disobey him," I sigh, "As much as I'd like to my family's just too important to me. If he pairs me up with someone, I think I'll have to be with them. I'm sorry."

"It'll be a bit hard for you to be with anyone else," Luster leans towards me, whispering conspiratorially in my ear, "After all you're already a married man." I give her a quizzical look and she points down, "Your hand genius."

I look down to see a thin golden band shaped like a coiled snake wrapped around my finger, it's red ruby eye winking at me in the sunlight. I look up at her in amazement and then down at my hand again, my mouth hanging agape.

"How? What? Buh?" I mumble, and Luster giggles, drawing another gold ring from her pocket.

"Found this in your pants pocket while you were sleeping. What, you thought mining diamonds was the only place I got my money from?" Luster asks. "I'm a pickpocket Glis', always have been. It's a good source of income for a girl like me, just so long as you give enough to the Peacies to keep them blind."

She slips the ring onto her finger and inspects it, reading the inscription. "'_Luster Vine will you be mine.' _It's cute. I like it. Whaddya think of yours?"

"It's wonderful," I beam.

"Cool, 'cos that's a half year's income you're wearing. I don't want you losing it."

I take her hands and stare down into her orb like eyes, "So is this official?" I wonder, "I mean aren't I supposed to ask you, or is this a Poorside custom?"

"Well no," Luster's eyes sparkle deviously, "But if anyone asks we'll say you proposed. You were going to anyway, weren't you?"

I nod furiously and she smiles, running a slender hand down my neck. I stare deeply into her eyes and toy with her hair as she moves her hands down and over my shoulders.

"This is the bit where you kiss the bride." Luster whispers, and I lean down and kiss her on the lips. She returns the kiss passionately as our bodies intertwine.

There isn't anything that could ruin this moment.

Which is of course the cue for the tent flap to fly open and my family to file in to say their goodbyes. My father stops, his mouth falling open, shaking with barely repressed rage, but I pay him no heed.

Sure the universe hates me, my District partner hates me and my mom and dad probably do to, but Luster doesn't. That's the important thing.

Plus the sponsors are going to eat this up!

* * *

_What a sickeningly sweet and soppy installment. If you need some help getting the extra sap out of your system then you're in luck, because it's time for..._

_**Nyrro asks: **__'What is your favourite part of the Hunger Games preparation and why?'_


	4. D2- The Abandoned Duellist

_**From the Desk of the Games Makers: **__Today's tribute is endorsed by MySoulToReap funeral care and life insurance, one of three companies to have exclusive rights to burials of tributes and Victors. If it's not MSTR, you didn't die properly, go back and try again. On a more personal note the Games Makers wish Miss Chrysler a long and successful career followed by a short and messy death._

* * *

_**Chapter 3: The Abandoned Duellist**_

_Cassanova Chrysler, age 17 (D2 Female)_

_Had a bed wetting problem till age 7._

Most people don't know much about swords. Most can't tell you the differences between a backsword and a rapier. Many wouldn't know a zweihander or a khopesh if you chopped off an arm with one. Even our District's Careers don't know how to get the best out of swords, seeing them only as boring and dull and relying on amateurish hack-and-slash techniques to get results.

I don't mean to brag, but I know exactly how to get the best out of swords.

And that's why I'm currently hung from the ceiling by my ankles, clutching my trusty saber and fending off a madman wielding a ruler.

"Dizzy yet?" Augustine asks as he thrusts at me.

"Nope," I reply, batting his attack away. I can feel one of the veins in my head, my vision blurs occasionally and my stomach aches, but I've had worse. I'm just glad we don't do this after breakfast.

"Great." Augustine throws another series of jabs and slashes at me which I deflect. "How are your ankles?"

"Just peachy."

"Peachy OK or peachy ow?"

"Peachy OK."

"Really?" Augustine parries one of my sweeps and counters, "We don't want you getting rope burn again Cass'. Carol'd kill me."

"I told you I'm fine."

"You're a little sloppy." Augustine grimaces, landing three short slashes into my ribs, "Are you sure you're OK?"

"I'm fine," I wince, "Just thinking about other things."

I don't want him believing I'm some weakling who can't block. It took long enough to convince him to let me try out for the Games in the first place. I don't want him changing his mind at the last minute.

"It's a boy isn't it?" Augustine asks with a knowing smile. My face turns crimson and I slash at him, but he effortlessly deflects my blow. "It's OK to be distracted by some handsome young guy, you know. I was a little off for a while after I first met Carol."

"I'm not being distracted by boys! I don't even know any guys."

"A girl then?" Augustine teases.

"Augustine!" I yelp, flailing. He ducks my jab and strikes a blow to my stomach followed by one to my face. I splutter, winded and he steps away.

"Aaand you're dead!" Augustine unties my ankles and I plummet to the floor, "Rule sixteen."

"'Never let the enemy lower your guard with babble,_'_" I groan, rubbing my head and cursing my stupidity. "I should know that one."

"You _do_ know that one."

"Maybe if I have another try?"

"Breakfast," Augustine says resolutely, "I'm not having you tire yourself out. You'll need a big meal today."

I sigh and sheath my sword, hurrying out of the yard and into the small dark corridor that leads to our home, which Augustine calls Apostol Headquarters.

Augustine's a member of the Apostol family, a secretive order which specialises in bodyguard work and duelling with swords. They used to do assassinations to, until the Capitol put a stop to that when the rebellion came along.

People say that District Two is the Capitol's buddy District, but they still don't want criminal syndicates running around in Two. They're not idiots. The only reason the family survived at all is because they cozied up to the Capitol, and even then the couple of us they left alive had to take up Peacekeeper duties and keep their teachings in the family.

"Ah Cassie!" A chipper voice calls to me as a tall brown haired woman saunters out of her bedroom and joins us on the way to the dining room, "Morning!"

"Heya Caroline," I beam. Caroline Green is Augustine's girlfriend... wife... it's complicated. All you need to know is that Caroline is with Augustine and she's in it for the long run, but they're not actually married because Apostol superstitions are stupid.

"Heading for breakfast?" she asks, "Make sure you clean up after and for heavens sake tidy up your bed. It might rain today and I'm tired of hanging it out to dry all the time."

"Yes Carol," I nod.

"And you dear," Caroline turns to Augustine, "Could you stop hanging her from the ceiling every chance you get?"

"Caroline, I'm fine, honestly," I assure her, but she ignores me.

"She's enough of a state after a normal training session," Caroline continues, "Without you using that lovely hair of hers as a mop."

"She needs to learn to fight in difficult situations," Augustine explains.

"I thought you said she'd mastered that when she did the blindfold training three years ago!"

"Well she needs to master it better."

"What am I going to do with you two?" She mutters, rolling her eyes as the three of us enter the dining room.

Horto's withering gaze greets us as we enter, a bowl full of thick stew resting in between his wizened, knotted hands. The head of the family is decked out in a gleaming Peacekeeper uniform, the helmet of which nicely covers a bald head, although the visor is raised so that the world may gaze in awe upon the small black moustaches which he spends so long titivating each morning.

"Augi." Horto grins, pointedly ignoring Caroline and I as we take our seats. "You're up? It's Reapings, boy. I would have expected you to get some rest. We have work."

Augustine takes a bowl and raises it to his lips, slurping some down before responding, "Cassie needs her training."

"No," Horto replies curtly, "She does not."

"You don't understand uncle, she's not going to be ready to start Peacekeeper training next year if she isn't up to scratch. Not to mention preperation for, well..." He looks at me and smiles.

"She shouldn't _be _getting ready for anything!" Horto barks, "She's an urchin not an Apostol! She should be breaking rocks in the mine, if she weren't too short for it."

"We aren't that tall ourselves," Augustine mutters and Horto turns on him, his eyes burning angrily.

"That is not the point and you know it! We are Apostols! Direct descendants of one of Two's oldest families! We have our pride! We can't go letting in outsiders."

"Oh listen to yourself," Augustine growls, "You talk about us as if we're any more than lackeys of the Capitol!"

"Of course we're lackeys of the Capitol, Augi," Horto grumbles, "Everyone is. All we have to do is pay our dues and they leave us alone. But of course, that's not good enough for my nephew! No, he has to go and take in some filthy infant he finds in the street on a whim just because a piece of paper tells him to!"

"And what would you have had me do?" Augustine snarls.

"Leave her." Horto says with a shrug, and Caroline, who had been ignoring the conversation up until now and trying to enjoy her soup, looks up and gasps. "What? There are plenty of orphans in the District. That's why we have orphanages."

"She was on our doorstep!" Caroline interjects, slamming the table as she rises to her feet.

"And that automatically makes her our responsibility?," Horto's eyes narrow, "I find rats on that doorstep all the time. Notice I don't unthinkingly invite them into the family and offer a place at the table. Unless you count stew." He laughs huskily. "I mean honestly, what would the Capitol think?"

"The Capitol accept that she's a part of the family," Augustine snarls, "It's called adoption."

"Great, send her to live with the Capitol then!"

"Why you bitter, vicious, vile old..." Caroline roars, before realising I'm still in the room, "Cassie dear, would you go make your bed please?"

Although I'm interested in seeing how this argument turns out, I nod and slip away from the table, the sounds of shouting following me down the corridor.

It's weird the way Augustine and Caroline treat me. They seem to think it's perfectly fine for me to learn advanced ways to kill people and join a Games where I could get killed myself, but every time an argument starts between them and Horto, which is almost every day, they send me off to do chores.

It's like people forget how old I am just because I look like a kid. Being small is just a big disadvantage. No one ever listens to you or thinks you can do anything.

I just wish I could prove to them for once that I'm not just some dumb little kid, I'm a fighter, and I deserve to be an Apostol even if I'm not one in blood.

Returning to the yard I find my bed, if you can call it that. It's more of a mat with a pillow. I have a tent for when it's windy or wet and a blanket for when it's cold too. It's not much, but I'm happy for it. Augustine says it's as much as I can expect from Horto.

I try not to let it get to me, but it's a little upsetting to know I live in the house of someone who hates me enough to not let me, well, live in their house.

I crouch down next to my bed, slipping out my backpack, which Augustine bought me for a birthday once.

It's pretty cool to have somewhere to store my stuff, but I like my sword better, and my necklace.

The necklace in question is a silver choker with a blue fleur de lys carved into the front. They're gifted at birth, or in my case adoption, to each Apostol and they're a treasure that each of us holds close to our heart, not least because they're expensive. Both Augustine and Horto have one, and Horto's even has a proper sapphire in it, instead of a blue pebble.

Slipping the chocker around my neck, I quickly change into my Reapings clothing, a bright blue t-shirt and light capris.

I turn, ready to bolt over the fence and make my way down the cliff path that leads from our back gate to Reaping Square, when Augustine's voice calls to me.

"Cassie, you coming?"

I was hoping I could get a few hours practice in before heading down to the Reapings on my own, but I guess that won't happen. It's a shame since I'm not usually allowed extra practice time, Caroline doesn't like me over-exerting myself. I think she's constantly worried that if I do more than half an hour's exercise a day I'll keel over.

"Coming," I call, and jog down the hall to the front door to find Augustine standing there, staring at me through his sagging hair.

"Take it off," Augustine's voice has a slight edge of amusement as he points at the choker around my neck, like a father talking to a small child.

"What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing," My trainer shakes his head, "But you know grandfather won't like it."

I hate it when people call Horto my grandfather and I'm pretty sure he hates it too. It was Augustine's idea though, so I don't challenge it. I've got too much respect for the man.

"I'm a part of the Apostol family," I retort, "Hor- Grandfather can't stop me wearing it. It's my right."

"Not the way he sees it," the dark man in front of me says, "Stick it in your pocket or something. You can take it as a token."

I nod and pocket it.

Augustine holds the door open for me and I step out. Heat rises up to hit me as I step outside, despite the cold of the morning. The heat is smoke rising up from the mines, stinging my eyes and drying my throat. I splutter into my shirt. Having spent most of my time above the ash clouds in a home in the mountains, I've never really had the time to become used to the sensation of constantly choking and it makes me a light headed whenever I have to run errands or to meet people in town. Due to this I don't generally venture out, which is fine by Horto since he hates having to admit I exist, let alone that I'm an Apostol.

"Guess, you were planning on going without me then," Augustine chuckles as we walk.

"Well doy, I thought you were on duty today. Shouldn't you already be off doing Peacekeeper stuff?"

"Nope," Augustine grins from under his saggy hair, "Day off."

"You get days off?"

"Technically, no. But Ol' Cassius doesn't mind. Told me Two never gets any trouble, so far as he's concerned I don't need to show up. Said I wouldn't want to miss cheering on my daughter. So what do you say? Mind if your old man tags along for moral support."

"You mushbucket," I scowl and bat at him with my hand, "You're too young to be playing the soppy old man card."

"But not too young to practice."

As we make our way down we're joined by teens clutching swords or axes or various other weapons and sporting matching grey tracksuits. Some of the guys are shirtless and many carry training weights. I roll my eyes.

I don't get Careers, at least not the kind our District produces. Even most of the girls possess this sort of machismo attitude to training, as if whatever happens it'll be OK as long as they act tough and hit as hard as they can. They have no concept of tactics or style or thinking with your head. Careers just spend all their time one upping each other and for what? At the end of the day one of them gets to go kill people, and this year they won't even get the chance.

Because this year it's my job.

I decided a long time ago that I wanted to volunteer for the Games. I mean who not? It's a perfect stage for me to prove myself to the world that I'm not just some tiny weakling orphan who needs protecting. I deserve to be an Apostol as much as any true born child.

It must have been the Reapings two years ago when I told Augustine my plans. At first he was horrified and he tried to keep me away from it.

"You're going to be a Peacekeeper," he told me, "It's a good, solid job. Why risk your life on a stupid gamble?"

Eventually, however, I convinced him. No Apostol ever won the Games before, and Horto often complains about what a shame it is that our District is obsessed with brute strength and ignores the more subtle methods of combat.

"If there was a real Apostol eligible for the Games," Horto often snarls into his soup, "And who wasn't too cowardly to volunteer, then we'd have a proper victor."

"Well I'm eligible," I told Augustine one night when I was fifteen as the two of us stood in the yard watching the miners below chip away at hunks of stone with huge mallets, "I'm brave and I can kick the Games' butt!"

When I volunteer, it'll convince Horto of my worth too. I'll win the Games with ease and grace and we can finally be a family.

I might even start calling Augustine dad, although I doubt it.

We pass a couple of girls slashing at each other with swords. They look younger than me, but I notice to my dissatisfaction that both are taller. And they're not fighting properly.

"You're holding your sword wrong," I note helpfully, smiling in what I hope is a friendly manner.

The girls turn on me, frowning fiercely. Clearly my smile's not working.

"What would you know?" one of the girls, who I guess is about fifteen, snarls.

"Yeah," the other spits, "You're just some kid. Bet you're not even a Career."

She cuts at my legs and I leap back, looking to Augustine for help. I don't like being teased, but I know better than to fly off the handle at two idiots. At least not without permission first.

"Practice," Augustine's smile is soft, but I can still detect the menace in it. I draw my saber but rather than the two being afraid, as I'd expected, the two burst out laughing.

Careers are weird.

"Aww," one of the girls coos, "Look Domina, baby's got herself a sword smaller than she is."

"Whatcha gonna do with that," the other snickers, "Poke us to d-YAH!"

I spin the blade around, knocking the girl's dagger out of her hand and cutting her scabbard off. The scabbard falls around her legs and I push her backwards, her legs tangling in it as she crashes to the floor. The other girl advances on me and I twirl past her and slash open the back of her tracksuit top. The girl squeals as I bat her sword out of her hand and kick it away from her.

"Oh and by the way," I beam, "I'm seventeen. Who's the baby now?"

The two clamber to their feet and scurry away, presumably to find a Peacekeeper. I don't see why, there aren't any rules against sparring before the Games in Two. It's how we train.

I return to Augustine's side and we walk on for a while until we reach the square, chatting as we go. Well, chatting is probably the wrong word, it's more like I talk he listens, but it satisfies both of us.

Due to the Apostol's being a Peacekeeper family, we get hurried through the queues and sorted pretty quickly. They take my name and, much to my chagrin, my sword too. I loved that sword and I feel a pang of sorrow that I won't get to use it in the Arena.

Up on stage the mayor is talking, but I'm not really listening.

It feels like my head is burning up, and not just because I've got dirt from the mines in my mouth. My mind is running at a million miles a minute.

Once I win my life will be so different! I mean I'll finally be accepted as a an Apostol, but that's just the start of it. I'll get all the fame and fortune I'll want and I'll go to all the fancy parties with the victors. I've never been to a party before, I wonder if it's fun? I could ask a few of the victors to sign my shirt or something.

Wait what am I thinking? Autographs come later, I've got to actually volunteer first.

In my present position I can't actually see the stage, due to being behind a whole bunch of lanky teens. I stand on my tiptoes and jostle a little for a better view, eventually spotting a blue haired lady in a butchered suit draped over one of the Reaping balls. I guess she's the escort.

"Now," the woman hangs on every word as if savouring and smiles a lazy, cat like smile, "Let's see which of you lovely ladies will get the chance to win glory for District Two."

Her hand slips down into the ball, scooping out a name and lifting it to her face. She inspects it and the entire District waits with bated breath. We always wait for the name. It's common courtesy.

"Alana Ori."

"I volunteer!" about twenty girls scream at once, but they're all too slow, too busy soaking in dreams of glory to put their hands up quite as quickly as I.

"Ah yes, shorty," she points to me, "I think you had your hand up first!"

I prance out of line, leaping on stage with a spring in my step. It's only when I'm there, however, that I look out and see a sea of faces staring back at me. In fact, I don't think I've ever had so many people pay attention to me before. In fact I can't remember a time when more than a couple of people payed attention to me at once.

It's daunting.

OK, OK. Deep breaths. That's it you're doing great. Just remember what you learned. Feet wide apart, steely glare of determination and speak.

"I-I..."

Come on, girl, speak!

"Ca..."

"Your name please," The woman says with a sly smile.

"Ye-yes. I-I'm Cass-Cassanova Chrysler," I wince at my own awkwardness, before finding my second wind and powering on through, "And I volunteer!"

The escort leans over the other Reaping Ball and picks a name, reveling in the screams of 'I volunteer' which follow its reading.

"You!" She points to a tall youth in the seventeen's section without even looking up. The boy who storms up to the stage looks familiar. Peeking behind me I spot a definite resemblance between him and Victory Mavericks, a tall blond victor who is standing to the side of the others.

The boy introduces himself as Magnus Mavericks, so it seems my hunch was correct.

Well I'm OK with that, I knew this was going to be a challenge anyway. It'll be all the more exciting to prove myself by killing someone whose family already has a victor in it.

We wave to the crowd as we're led off the stage into the imposing Peacekeeper HQ. I've come here with Augustine and Caroline a few times, but it feels grander somehow as a tribute.

I'm actually a little surprised when, only a matter of minutes after being escorted inside, the door swings open and a figure I don't recognize slips in.

She's tall and pretty with dark hair, freckles and blue eyes which I feel I should recognise but I don't. In fact I'm still trying to place her when she throws her arms around me and pulls me into a bone crushing hug.

"Oh darling I'm so happy for you! I knew you'd do well I just..." The woman trails off and pulls away, her eyes misty, "Oh look at you."

"Do I know you?"

"Your father couldn't make it," the woman trills, "he sends his love."

"Yeah I know. I just saw Augustine. Are you a Peacekeeper or..."

"No dear, not him. Your real father. Oh and I'm not a Peacekeeper, I work in a smithy. You'd love it. It's just a shame we had to give you up. But life is just so complex. I'm sure you understand."

Realisation dawns as I stare up at my mother.

"I think I'd like you to leave now please."

"Oh come now Cassie, I thought you'd be a little more..."

"No!" I yelp, backing away from her outstretched arms, "Go. Please, just go."

"Young lady stop!" The woman shouts, gripping me by the shoulders and turning me to face her. I stare defiantly into her angry blue eyes and imagine each were a nest of tracker jackers. At least if they were she'd get her due.

"Get off me!"

"Now really, this is no way for a tribute to act! You're representing Two, the least you can do is say goodbye to the woman who named you and carried you around in her belly for nine months."

"And left me on the doorstep of some stranger's house!" I spit.

"Now dear," the woman soothes, "We had no choice. Me and Pierre knew that we couldn't raise you. Giving you up was the hardest thing we've ever done, but we knew we weren't prepared and now we are!"

"I don't want you to raise me," I hiss, "I want to stay with the Apostols."

"Now don't be silly," She smiles, "You'll love your real family once you meet us. You have a wonderful younger sister, Trinny, and Bedford, he's your little brother. He's nine in two weeks and a new big sister would be just the best present on earth for him. Oh Cassie, you'll love them when you meet..."

"So why wasn't I good enough?" I murmur.

"What?"

"Why couldn't I be a part of your family? What makes them so special that you keep them around and ditch me?" My voice cracks as tears begin to flow down my cheeks, "What was I too short? Too dumb? I wear my hair pretty short, so was that it? Did you not like my nose? Was I too freckly? Did my eyes offend you? Did you look into the future and decide I was too much of a screw up to love? Did you just feel like being dicks? Why? What did I do?"

"Darling please," she's pressed up against the wall now, "We just- just weren't ready for a baby. We'd only just married and we were so young and we had plans, oh such great plans Cassie. And then- then you were there and we didn't know what to do so we..."

"Abandoned me."

"Oh not abandon dear, never abandon," the woman smiles down at me, "We let you go and look how well you've done for yourself. You're going to be the next victor I just know it. Why with what we'll receive for your victory we'll be rich. We'd certainly one up those haughty Apostol b..."

My hand impacts with her face and the woman falls back, clutching a bleeding nose.

"You abandoned me so I could win fame and fortune for you?" I snarl, "You? The creeps who are stopping me from being accepted by the people I actually want to be my family?"

"You hit me! Your own mother!" The woman splutters.

"Well let me make this very clear, you rock shoveling whore! I'm no daughter of yours and I am not your little victor either! I'm an Apostol and I'm doing this for the Apostols, not your pathetic Chrysler brood! I am Cassanova _Apostol_! And I don't like you!"

"Why you ungrateful..."

"OUT!"

The woman stands stunned for a few moments, before brushing the dust off of her, regaining her dignity and pointing her chin imperiously in the air.

"Fine. You want to abandon your family to live some dream? I can live with that. But," a glimmer of a smile peels across her pretty face, "I notice no one from your 'family' showed up though Ms Apostol. I guess they were busy being too good for us Chryslers. Heh, so much for winning for the Apostols."

I shiver with rage as she stalks out.

She's wrong. I know she's wrong. She probably wasn't even my mother.

Yeah that's it. She's just the mom of some Career come to make me feel bad for stealing her baby's chance.

My real family, the family I want to be with are still coming.

In fact I'll sit here and wait until they come to say goodbye. Yeah! Then she'll see.

I curl into a little ball and wait for my family to come. I don't speak to any of my other visitors I just wait. I don't even look at them, I just listen for their voice and if it isn't one I recognise I ignore them.

And I wait.

And with each new visitor I curl a little tighter into my protective ball and wait all the harder.

And I don't stop waiting, until the Peacekeepers come in and escort me out, the last of them turning off the lights as he goes.

* * *

_And as the lights go off, so too do the lights come on for another exciting instalment of..._

_**Nyrro asks: **__'Who is your favorite canon tribute and why?'_


	5. D2- The Dedicated Brother

_**From the Desk of the Games Makers: **__Magnus Mavericks is supported by star racing driver Flintlightning, Panem's ace and owner of the Stormstone club downtown. Also, our head broadcaster has recently returned from a fortnights holiday, over which time he has been unable to update or write new chapters so we apologize if you have suffered any delays in your area. Don't worry, he has been executed and replaced and we assure you that this will (hopefully) not happen again._

* * *

_**Chapter 4: The Dedicated Brother**_

_Magnus Mavericks, age 17 (D2 Male)_

_Allergic to shrimp_

District Two is a funny place. In most Districts the Victors, no matter how innocent or murderous they are are treated with a sort of quiet respect. They're celebrities sure but most are murderers too and people tend to give them a wide berth. It's a rare event to see, for example, a victor from District Six talking to anyone other than another victor. Even most victors relatives want nothing to do with them.

That's half the reason they're kept locked up in the Victor's Village most of the year, so they don't disturb the normals who live in the slums and so they aren't suddenly dragged from their bed in the middle of the night by an angry lynch mob thirsting for their blood.

But things work a little differently in Two, and I guess in One and Four too, since One made their Victor a mayor and all. In the Career Districts, the Victors are idolized. They're viewed as gods, no matter how crazy they turn out or how many people they mercilessly butchered.

Take Victory, my big sis, for example. Everyone's heard the rumours and everyone knows how delicate her sanity is. There are tales of her garroting her boyfriend on the night she returned from the Games because she thought she was still there and of her pinning me against the wall and trying to gouge my eyes out with a butter knife because I mentioned the Games over lunch.

As her brother I can tell you that those rumours are all true. And you'd think that would put people off wanting to be anywhere near her, or at least from wanting to date her, but like I said, District Two can be weird.

"C'mon man!" Slater growls as he paces back and forwards, a guitar slung over one shoulder and a large sledgehammer over the other, "Let me in, it's freezing out here!"

"Then go home," I retort, "Vi's asleep."

"I just want to know if she's doing anything Sunday? Thought she'd like to watch the Games together."

"She doesn't," I snap, "Vi' never watches the Games."

"Then she could come round my place. We don't have a TV so there's no chance of her having to watch it," Slater calls, "Tell her I just want to hang!"

"Not a good choice of words," I sigh, slipping off the ledge of the balcony and leaping down to where Slater stands on the mountain path below, "She'll probably take that literally."

"Worth the risk," Slater says with a wistful smile, "I mean can you imagine what it'd be like to have a smoking hottie like Victory Mavericks as your girl."

"Dangerous," my other friend, Bruten sighs as he steps out of the shadows, "Especially if you make a habit of calling her a 'smoking hottie' in front of her brother. Idiot."

I can't say I'm surprised he's here. Bruten and Slater are inseparable, both in and out of training. I guess Slater bought him along as moral support.

The rest of us always say that if one of them volunteered for the Games, the other would dress up as a girl just so he could go with him. Personally I'd like to see that, particularly if it were Bruten in a dress. He'd look good as a girl, if it weren't for the beard.

"Ah come on man," Slater replies, raising his hands in mock surrender, "She's totally hot! She's like, the best Victor to date."

"If you like losing your tongue on your first kiss," Bruten smirks, "I noticed."

"Have either of you idiots even seen her without her wig on?" the two shake their heads and I grimace, "Her head looks like someone carved a road map of Panem on it. Now come on, get your mind on training and out of my sister's pants before I throw up."

Slater opens his mouths to protest but I shoot him a look he two quickly shut up.

"I so had a shot there," Slater mutters to Bruten as the two trudge after me, away from my sister's mansion.  
"No you didn't," I call back to him, "She's seven years older than you dude. Let her go. You're way too young for her."

"And so are you," Bruten retorts, "I mean I'm all for stopping some dumbass like Slats from macking on your sister, but you're like this with every guy who tries to date her, even the ones who are double your age. Seriously, why're you being so overprotective. Quit acting like you're her big brother."

"I am her big brother," I smile, "I'm four inches taller than she is aren't I?"

The two Careers shrug, satisfied by my logic, and we make our way down to the gates that separates the Victors Village from the rest of the District in silence.

Another thing that makes District Two different from the other Districts is our Victors Village. Most of the other Districts have fences around their Victors Village, to stop normals from sneaking in and stealing stuff or braining a Victor they don't like, but Two doesn't need one. Instead the village is built at the top of a mountain surrounded by sheer cliffs and cut off from the rest of the District by two huge gray granite gate staffed constantly by Peacekeepers to keep the normals out and the victors in. It means that most people can't even get close to the village, which is nice because after the dirt and heat of the District, a little bit of seclusion is a welcome boon.

Not that we're completely isolated up here. There are the other Victors, whose houses are just above our heads, and so many rabid fans climb up here all the time that the Peacekeepers just gave up trying at some point. They still execute a couple of people as scapegoats whenever the Capitol mentions how lax their security is, but they don't really try to keep anyone out anymore, which is fine by me.

As much as I hate having to keep my friends from groping my sister every time they see her, I have to admit it's better than being on your own, which is what it's like in the winter, when the snow closes the paths up to the village and the ice makes the cliffs to treacherous to climb.

Talking of winter, I'm starting to regret not bothering to change out of my nightwear before coming out. Shorts and a shirt is fine for a nice heated bedroom or down in the forges, but Two is freezing even in summer. I can feel an icy chill cling to the hairs on my legs as the three of us approach the first gate, which grinds slowly open to let us through.

"So," Slater chirps as we pass the men working the mechanism of the second gate, "Who do you think it'll be this year?"

"Me," I reply.

"No duh," Bruten snickers, "Meduse would give her left arm and leg to have the brother of a victor volunteer. Lucky for you. Rest of us have to rely on competence and ability to get in the Games. You just get in on blood."

"Hey! I've got skills," I protest, "No one in the District is anywhere close to me with a sword and none of them would even be able to hold two at once, let alone use them. I'm a damn side better than you two clowns for a start and your supposed to be the best in the District."

"Sure Mags keep telling yourself that."

"Much as I like listening to you two old ladies whine at each other, I didn't mean which one of us was volunteering. I was thinking more who the girl was gonna be," Slater pipes up. "My money's on Shae, she'll certainly turn a few heads in the chariot rides. Wonder if they'll stick her in something nice?"

"Yeah and she'll turn swiftly to blood in the bloodbath," Bruten quips, "Seriously Slats, Shae's a looker but she's barely even a Career. There's no way Meduse would pick some wuss like her."

"Well what about Riker then?" Slater asks, "She's a fighter."

"I don't think so," I shake my head, "She's too far the other way. Too boring to draw the crowds. They never chose the plain tributes."

"Guess that explains your hair then," Bruten says, indicating the brown fauxhawk that I've sculpted my hair into with so much gel that it actually still feels a bit sticky.

"You know it," I grin, slicking my hair back with one hand, "Got to look my best for the ladies. Who do you think is going to be sending me my food while I'm in the Arena."

"OK then Mr Heartthrob," Slater grins as we pass the first few small buildings that lie on the outskirts of our District, "Who do you think is gonna be your partner?"

"Roxy," I conclude after a little thought, "She's a little young but she's got the looks and the skills. She's pretty good with a sword and a bow and she's blond. Meduse loves blonds."

"Roxy?" Bruten thinks for a moment, "Roxy Tate. Isn't she..."

"Trinity's sister," I reply, my face falling, "Yeah."

Trinity Tate is- was my girlfriend. A couple of years ago she volunteered. She was fifteen and I tried to tell her she was too young, but you know how it is. Young Careers always get the attention, and that means they get the sponsors, so she went. Suffice to say she didn't come back. She came fifth, which is OK for a fifteen year old, but it doesn't matter. Fifth is still dead. I don't really like to think about it.

Then again, I don't think I'd want to be her boyfriend anymore if she had come back. If Trinity had come back anything like Victory did I don't think I would have made it to my sixteenth birthday.

"Lunch for the next week says your wrong," Slater cheers and I grin.

"Gonna be a bit hard for me to buy you lunch while I'm in the Arena. Seriously Slats, if you're going to bet make a bet I can keep."

"Fine," Slater says slyly, "You win, I'll... I dunno, send you something nice as a sponsor reward. You lose and you let me go out with Vi'."

"No deal."

"Aw come on Mags. It's not like your gonna be able to stop me while you're gone. Just take up the offer."

"No way," I spit, "I don't think District kids are even allowed to sponsor and heck, even if they were, what would you buy me? Some bread? A glass of water? Face it Slats. I ain't betting the love life of my sister on something dumb like that!"

"Isn't that sort of her business anyway?" Bruten asks, "Just saying, kind of a dumb bet Slats. You dumbass."

Slater balks under our withering stares and looks at his boots, and we walk a little way further in silence.

Since it's so early in the morning, the streets are mostly deserted as we make our way down to the square. There are a couple of posters up of victors and the like, but those have been up for months anyway. Nothing about Two makes it appear like today is anything other than a normal day but to the three of us, it is the most important day of the entire year.

We're Careers. Today is the day we've been waiting for all our lives.

"You think they'll have the stage up yet?" Slater asks, filling the eerie silence with some welcome blather.

"Don't care," I shrug.

"How about you Brutes, what do you think?"

"Dunno man," Bruten mutters, "Do I look like Meduse to you?"

"A bit," I reply, "If you dyed your hair blue."

Slater laughs and Bruten grimaces, rolling his eyes.

"Gee thanks. You know, I preferred you when you were getting all pissy about Slats dating your sister," Bruten groans,

"Ah man, you should see the look on your face!"

Bruten's face reddens and he hides it with a hand. "Yeah well, I don't even want to think what I'd look like if I dyed my hair the same colour as Meduse's."

"You'd look simply darling my dear!" a deep voice booms from behind us, "Oh and don't worry. You'll get used to the dye after a while."

The three of us spin around to find ourselves staring at a pair of women who stand behind us.

The first, our escort Meduse, is a tall, neon blue haired woman whose choice of clothing can be described as a swimsuit with holes cut in it and high heels so long and impractical that she has to be practically carried to the stage every year and rested on the balls.

She grins wolfishly and bats her eyelashes as she takes in the looks of shock on Slater and Bruten's faces, but pouts slightly when she notices that my eyes are not on her, but on the second woman.

Victory stands in her nightgown slightly behind Meduse. Her hand is wrapped around Meduse's arm, partly for the escort's support and partly so that Victory doesn't wander off.

"You know this is a wonderful coincidence," Meduse drawls, her eyes half lidded as she watches me, "Me and your lovely sister were just discussing hair ourselves. I was telling her she could really benefit from a lovely pink. It matches her complexion and, well, when your wearing wigs why bother with those outdated autumn colours."

"Victory," I take a step closer to my sister, angling her face with my hand so that she has to stare into my eyes, "You're supposed to be in bed."

Her smile is vacant as she stares at me and, when she speaks, her voice is unnervingly serene. "Me and Meduse were just going for a walk," Victory mumbles, "Like you."

"Yes but you're supposed to be up on stage with the other Victors today. You can't strut around dressed in your nightgown."

"Why not? You are," Victory smile is innocent, but I can see the cracks begin to form. I had better tread carefully.

"I didn't have time to change. Besides, it's different for me, today's the day I volunteer."

"Oh yes," Meduse licks her lips, "I am looking forward to that."

"How is it different? Because I'm a victor I can't go anywhere with my best friends but you get to go out with yours?"

I open my mouth to say something, but the words catch in my throat.

Victory is ranting now, her face changing in an instant from a girlish pout that makes her look more like a small child than a dangerous victor to a curled snarl of fury.

There's nothing I can do to stop her.

"You get free reign of the District and I can't even leave the house. I thought I was the older one. I thought I was supposed to be the one protecting you!"

It's at this point that she realises that her hands are at my throat and have been for her entire outburst, tightening slowly as she speaks.

With a squeal she releases me and I fall to my knees, gasping for air.

Victory stares at her hands then at me then back at her hands, her eyes shining with tears.

"What's wrong with me?" my sister shrieks, spinning on her heel and fleeing away from me.

"Nothing's wrong. You're just... just..." I sigh, trying to rise, as she disappears around the corner, "You're not well."

Meduse smiles her lupine and turns to the other two careers, who have pressed themselves into the wall and are trying to look like granite.

"You two," Meduse calls, "Run after her won't you."

The two nod franticly.

"After you Brutes," Slater grins nervously.

"No way," Bruten shivers, "You're the one who likes her."

"Yeah but that doesn't mean I'm chasing after the girl who just tried to kill her brother. She's not exactly going to go easy on us you know."

"Just go you coward," Bruten growls and Slater pulls a face, pulling his hammer off his shoulders and skulking after Victory. Bruten follows close behind him, spinning his tomahawk.

"I do love it when your sister has these little outbursts," Meduse leans over me, "It makes my annual visits so interesting. You know it's funny. She was so boring when she went into the Games, so serious. I really think that a little blunt head trauma improved her personality no end. Your thoughts?"

I cough, winded and unable to speak. Meduse tuts and places a hand on my head.

"Oh walk it off," she chuckles, "You'll have to do better than choke if you want to survive in the Arena. Do you really expect all your opponents to just cry and run away after they attack you?"

Vindicated by her harsh tone, I rise shakily to my feet and glare up into her eyes. "Don't worry. I won't be fighting my sister in the Arena."

"So you think all the tributes will be worse than an unarmed woman in a nightgown with serious emotional problems? Cute."

"I meant I won't be fighting people I care about. I'm not going to hesitate."

"You'd better not," Meduse turns and starts walking briskly to the platform, and I follow close behind her, "I don't want all that extra advice I gave you going to waste."

Meduse started helping me out six years ago, back when Victory won her Games. At the time Victory was very fragile so Meduse came along to make sure she didn't flip out or anything. I don't remember exactly what I said, but I must have mentioned that I wanted to join the Games or something, because Meduse was ecstatic. Apparently victor families really draw the crowds and cut down on the number of mansions they need to build, so she said she'd like to help me out.

It's completely illegal of course for an escort to help someone train for the Games before they even volunteer, but I wasn't going to tell anyone and since Meduse didn't want to get executed, she hasn't told anyone either.

Really her help isn't all that helpful, since she's an escort not a fighter, but I'm glad to get it. Basically she tells me how best to present myself, what to say what the fashions in the Capitol are etcetera, so that I can get the maximum sponsors possible. It's a handy little allegiance and, if all goes well, it should make me a victor and give her a serious career boost. After all, what's better than an escort who can 'accidentally' pick a tribute who is both related to a victor and a victor themselves. The Gamesmakers love that kind of thing.

"Don't worry," I assure her, "I can take it as well as I can dish it out. You should know, you've seen me train."

The lanky escort gives a quick laugh, before turning and beginning to walk towards Reaping Square.

"I'm going to get an early start. You could come along and stand on the stage with your sister if you like. After all I don't see any point in waiting for me to pick names. You and I both know who our tribute is."

"I'd rather go along with the rest," I respond, "Create a little tension you know. Let the babies have their bottles."

"Good boy," Meduse ruffles my hair and disappears into the night, "You'll go far. Now go get changed into something nice. I'd recommend a nice silver. People associate silver with Two you know."

I smile the smile she taught me as she walks away and salute. Meduse calls it my victor smile and she thinks it's cute and cocky, but not too cocky. I think it looks cheesy, but I smile it anyway.

I smile my victor smile right the way through my Reapings, which end exactly as I knew they would. I smile my victor smile when I shake hands with my District partner, who I expected to be taller, but is instead just some titch I've never met before with a silly accent. I even smile it all the way through my goodbyes, as I hug my vacant eyed sister, who has returned to her unnatural sweetness and seems to have no memory of her actions this morning.

But all the time a thought niggles at the back of my mind. No, niggles probably isn't the right word, screams is a better description. As me and Victory hug, my thumb grazes the scar that runs along from the base of her skull to the tip of her forehead and I remember.

I remember as they bought her out on the stretcher, her head covered in purple blotches and interconnecting scars, her face a beautiful portrait drowned in red ink.

And that horrible scream becomes a torrent, and the questions drown out everything else in my mind.

What if everything goes wrong?

What if I die like Trinity did, alone and defeated at the bottom of some pit, remembered by nobody?

No, worse than that, what if I don't. What if I... if I...

What if I come back like Victory, some crazy who isn't even a shadow of the warrior I was?

For a moment I want to run away as I break from Victory and make my way to the train. I want to find Meduse and tell her the deals off. No way am I running off to kill myself!

But I signed up for this, literally. I actually walked up to Meduse when I was eleven and said I wanted to join the Games. I've been planning to for years. And even now, even though I know better than anyone how much the Games can mess you up, what the Games have done to Victory and Trinity, and what it could just as easily do to me, I don't want to back down. I can't call it off. Like I said, I've trained for years for this moment and I'm not going to walk away from it now, even if I don't come back.

It sounds crazy I know but what can I say? I'm from District Two.

And District Two is a funny place.

* * *

_We'll be right back after this next edition of..._

_**Nyrro asks: **__'If you entered the Games, what weapon would you use and why?'_

* * *

_A/N: To all who've been waiting sorry for the delay. I've been in a caravan for the last fortnight. On top of that I found this chapter difficult to write, and I have to admit I'm still not entirely happy with it._

_Anyway, for those of you still wishing to submit tributes, we have a few spaces left for male tributes, I'm always willing to accept as long as the tributes original and I feel I can write them. As always don't forget to review, I appreciate your comments._


	6. D3- The Budding Mathematician

_**From the Desk of the Games Makers: **__Today's tribute is sponsored by one of the Nth Hunger Games' longest lasting supporters, Narcissa Weasly. The Games Makers would like to show their gratitude for both Ms Weasly and JGrayzz industries for their kicks up the backside that took these Games from a vision to a reality._

* * *

_**Chapter 5: The Budding Mathematician**_

_Maja Perdotter, Age 14_

_Secretly afraid that her feet are too big_

"I'm telling you, Nina, the chances of you getting Reaped today are astronomical. Oh and 236's fine by the way."

Nina nods and ticks her clipboard, "But I was thinking, it's my second year and I have a couple of tesserae in there again, doesn't that make me more likely to get Reaped since I wasn't last time?"

"237's fine. Nina," I sigh, looking up from the production line and through my hair at her, "Probability doesn't work that way. Don't worry, you've got a one two hundred and fifty chance of being reaped, and that's just accounting for the amount of children who live in our section. I don't even know how many people are in the- 237 A's fine- District."

"Yeah I know it's stupid," Nina smiles nervously, "But can you blame me? It's the Hunger Games Maja! Isn't it scary to think that we could end up fighting for our lives against a bunch of kids we've never met before?"

"If you think about it," I reply, "We're not really at risk. I feel more worried for Lena than I do for myself actually. 237 B's fine. It's her last year and she must have at least twenty tesserae out just to keep our family afloat."

"That's the way," I lift my eyes up from the conveyor belt I'm surveying and look over to my other friend Thea, who has just spoken, "Just keep your mind on the fact that today's a payed holiday and forget about the silly murder lottery part. That's what I do."

"Ms Cavendish," Thea squeaks as one of the custodians glares down at her from the grate floor above, "Those bolts won't carry themselves."

"Lord Reap me," Thea titters, hurrying over to a conveyor belt and tipping out the parts before returning and leaning against our desk, "Thank goodness the shift's almost over, I don't think I could do this for three hundred and sixty five days a year. I think I'd probably prefer the Games."

"Don't say that," Nina shivers, "You'll actually end up there."

"I told you Nina," I allow myself a chuckle, "Probability doesn't work that way."

"Yeah," Thea places her tray down and sidles up behind the two us, "I'm not going to jinx myself or something. I mean come on, if I were fated to go to the Games just saying I will isn't going to make it any more likely."

"Ladies! Work!" the custodian's voice causes the three of us to jump.

"238's half an inch too short," I note turning my mind back to the blueprints in front of me and scanning the next part, "And 238 C's looks a little crooked."

Nina plucks the offending components off the production line and quickly deposits it in the trash.

Really I don't see why we have to do this. I mean honestly, custodian Galton is the woman in charge of production. She should be in charge of quality control, not us.

But no, as ever Galton shirks off and leaves it to a couple of kids, who, improbably, just happen to be the two of us every single time.

Not that I'm surprised. What with the Capitol always breathing down our necks to get the newest gadgets on the shelves before the old ones have even left them, Galton needs to make sure that all his 'resources' as she calls us are as efficient as they can be. It would be a complete waste to put girls like me and Nina on production when our eyes for detail make us excellent at spotting the dud parts and we're both terrible at heavy lifting. Besides, it's an important job and it saves time picking out the broken parts before we make the products, rather than having to throw out a perfectly good eyeset later just because one of the screws is crooked.

I wouldn't even mind it that much if we got a little more money for the extra effort we put in, heck I'm happy to take on a little extra responsibility, but apparently that's not an option. It's not like Galton can't afford to pay us more, and all the adult coordinators and quality control the other factories use get bonuses, so I concluded long ago that Galton was just using us as cheap labour because we were children and she knew she could get away with it.

Not that I can do anything about it. This is the factory in the area I live so I have the choice between the job the custodians give me or the streets.

I suppose I could get a job in a shop or a bakers or something, but they don't even pay as well as factory cleaning, so most of the people who work there are dropouts or criminals.

"Alright ladies!" Galton's barking voice breaks my train of thought as she passes by, "Shift over! Clear out quick as you can and, if you're all still here, enjoy you're off time ya insolent little whelps."

The prune faced old bat continues to chunter on about today's youth and how everything was better in her day as she pulls a lever, sounding a claxon somewhere deep in the depths of the factories twisting corridors.

Nina is on her feet as soon as the claxon sounds, and, linking arms with Thea, the two drop what they're doing and head for the exit, with me following swiftly after.

The exterior of the factory is a huge block of grey concrete split into sections by metal fences and ladders that criss cross up and down the building allowing safe and orderly exit from every floor. People are pushed shoulder to shoulder in a seething throng as we descend from the fifth floor, and I quickly lose sight of Thea and Nina in the sea of old and young.

The street in front of the factory is just as bad, littered with bollards to increase flow of workers. I am pressed into one or two by the pushing crowd behind me as I walk, and wince as one catches me in the stomach. Fortunately I have yet to be pushed into one of the Peacekeepers, who are stationed around the edges to make sure that no one is dawdling or obstructing others. My little brother Thomas got shoved into one of them last year and ended up being publicly flogged and tased. It was a fortnight before he could sit still again without wincing.

All in all though it's a pretty smart system. A little barbaric yes but I can appreciate the mind who developed it. It's impersonal, which isn't nice but then again it's not supposed to be nice it's supposed to be work, and it's ruthlessly functional and efficient.

Kind of ironic that a District that makes almost nothing but logo covered gizmos should be so practical really, but Capitolites want their doodads and they want them fast, so it makes sense to make them as quickly and efficiently as possible.

It isn't long before the crowd disperses a little and I can start to make out people I recognise. Nina and Thea are a little in front of me, still arm in arm and giggling excitedly to one another, while my Lena, my eighteen year old sister, is still climbing up from the mech rooms, removing her goggles and hairnet and wiping oil from her overalls.

I can hear Thomas and Mia too chattering excitedly to one another. Knowing the twin twelve year olds, they're probably on either side of the chain link fence that separates the Production-Male and Production-Female sections of the factory.

Another way the factory increases labour is to seperate everything male and female and effectively create two factories, one for the men and one for the women. It's a pretty new initiative actually, having been bought in fifteen years ago, just over a year before I was born, which is odd because I thought it would be an obvious step. After all you don't want your men unable to work because they spend all their time gawking at an attractive woman or vice versa.

According to Thea they bought the measures in because they found a couple of lovebirds in and, erm, compromising position, shall we say, under one of the electrolysisers in this very factory. I'm not sure whether I believe that or not. Thea tends to be a bit of a gossip, and I'm pretty sure any couple who tried something like that under one of those particular machines wouldn't be very healthy for it. Electrolysisers have been known to explode if tapped lightly, and I doubt two adults could even fit under one of them, I certainly couldn't.

But maybe that's just why they're built so close to the ground now.

"Hey squirt," Lena smiles as she catches up to me, wrapping an arm around my shoulder and, to my dismay, getting oil all over my pristine white overalls, "How is it working on top floor with the big boys."

"Top floor doesn't have any boys," I reply, "It's quality control of parts. Top floor men does quality control of finished product."

"Geez how's working with the big girls then," Lena chuckles, "Seriously Maja lighten up, there's no need to be so over literal."

"But they fulfill totally different functi-"

"Look, all I want to know is whether they've started actually paying you properly or not."

"Not yet," I sigh, "Galton says we have to wait until we're sixteen to receive adult pay."

"At which point you'll get demoted to construction and they'll roll in your replacement."

I shake my head, "Not if I made myself invaluable. If I continue at my current performance they'll offer me a job in Schematics, Computing and Design. They say they've never had a better mathematician than me and they could really use my experti-"

I'm interuppted by Lena's laugh, "Yeah right. I keep telling you Maja, you're too optimistic. You haven't worked in the industry for as long as I have. Folks like us, we don't make it into SCD right. We don't even get near SCD."

"But logically they should hire the people whose skills best suite the duty, and that's-"

"The one's who can pay the bill," Lena grimaces, "Believe me, when I was your age I was told I could cut it for SCD too. Galton kept going on an on about how if I maximised my productivity and got top output and correction figures they'd have a spot ready and waiting for me when I turned sixteen. Sweet sixteen rolls around and wham! Before I know it I'm in Fault Repair. Fault Repair! The place where the heavies who flunked their Cores end up! Face it Maja, no matter how hard you work at the end of the day the Capitolites always get the good spots. Shame too. If I actually didn't end up in SCD the first thing I'd do would be to take that ugly Show-Out logo off of everything."

"I don't know," I respond, rubbing a little of the oil she's left on the shoulder of my overalls off, "I kind of like it."

"No way?" Lena pulls a face, "All that green and black? Errgh no thanks."

I giggle and Lena rests a hand on my shoulder and smiles down at me. What with her working split shifts most of the day and me working single shifts we don't get to spend much time together. When she is home it's usually because either mom or dad can't make it, so she spends most of the time cooking or cleaning or making sure that Thomas and Mia get to bed on time and don't mess anything up. The last one's particularly necessary, after all the twins are just kids and they need their rest if they're expected to work full shifts, but it means that Reapings day is really the only time we get to see much of each other.

I like just talking to her, we should do it more often. I mean we sisters after all, we should be the best friends in the world, instead of just people who barely know anything about each other.

"We should drop in at home to smarten up," Lena comments, "We can't go to the Games dressed like this."

"Why not?" I ask.

"Well you don't wanna get reaped in your boiler suit do you?"

"I fail to see why it would matter. If I get reaped I'm dead anyway, no matter what I wear."

"Yeah," Lena shrugs, "But you don't want to look like some oily work obsessed dork in front of everyone. The Capitol will never sponsor you."

"I doubt anyone would sponsor me anyway." Lena rolls her eyes and grips my arm, tugging me after her.

"Just follow me squirt and stick close, I don't want to have to explain to mom and dad that I lost you on reaping day."

"I know my way home thanks," I say, pulling back against her, but her grip stays tight on my sleeve, "Let go!"

"Yeah- no. Far as mum and dad are concerned I'm supposed to look after you three squirts twenty four seven and since your the only one around, guess I'm all yours."

"That's moronic."

"God, yeah I know right. Why'd you think I'm looking for my own place? To get away from being babysitter all the time."

It doesn't take us long to find the hovelic cavity in the wall that we call home within the twisting streets. After all we know exactly where we're going and, since it's Reapings and shift just ended, the only people who aren't heading to Reapings are the shop workers, and that means that the back alleys are practically deserted.

Then again the people still hanging around aren't the sort you want to run into in broad daylight in an open space, let alone a narrow corridor early in the morning before the sun has risen.

Down one road a couple of men in long grey coats hang around chatting. One of them wolf whistles as the two of us pass and Lena shivers, speeding up.

"H' gerje's, w'r ya gun'?" the man jeers, obviously drunk, "C'mon, c'movver har'n gi's a k'z."

Another road holds a gaggle of Peacekeepers trying to conceal themselves in the shadows as best as their white uniforms allow them. One of them is smoking something that I presume is illegal, and his eyes follow us suspiciously as we pass. We pretend not to notice him.

A few of ladies, and gentlemen for that matter, of the night are still plying their wares and, what with the narrowness of the street, we have to squeeze past them shoulder to shoulder. Most, I notice with some discomfort, look like they're probably younger than me.

They all seems afraid to meet our eyes.

Our house is, like I said, built into a wall along with every other house on this street. It's not a particularly nice house but it's bigger than most and older too, having been built before the rebellion, so it's not like we could find anywhere nicer, unless one of us won the Games of course.

"Dump," Lena smirks as she enters, looking around the dark kitchen come dining room, with its single flickering bulb and paper strewn table.

She pushes into my bedroom and takes a quick look around.

"You're keeping busy," Lena notes as she appraises the various diagrams and calculations that are strewn across the table and parts of the floor, "Stuff here's pretty complicated."

"It's not that hard. Just some theoretical stuff."

"You kidding? I couldn't do this, you're a little genius."

"You think? Mom doesn't like them. She says I need to tidy them up, instead of leaving papers all over the house."

"Yeah well mom's mom," Lena says as she opens my wardrobe and rifles through it, "Hey have you got anything nice in here? I mean what are these?"

"What's wrong with my clothes?" I pout, "They're perfectly good outfits."

"Yeah for grandma," Lena chuckles, "Man, no wonder you wear work smocks all the time. They're the nicest thing you've got other than all these." She waves a hand around my room, which is filled with a variety of hats.

"I like hats, so what?"

"So if you turn up in one of these the Capitol will think it's still the rebellion times. Come on kid, I've got some nice stuff in my room. It'll be a little big but it's better than this."

Lena's room is right next to mine, but I hardly ever go in there. It's about twice the size of mine, but she shares it with the twins, whereas I get my own. The entire room is filled with all sorts of junk, like Mia's teddy bear collection and Thomas' half finished gadgets which he makes out of old broken machine parts he's allowed to take home, meaning it's a veritable minefield of bits and bobs. It's almost impossible to make it through the room without stepping on something, which is another reason I think Lena wants to leave so bad.

"Lena," I ask, as she passes me a frilly white dress and turns back to look for something else.

"Yeah squirt?"

"Can we talk."

"Something on your mind?"

I shrug, "Not really. I just feel like talking I guess."

"About what?"

"I don't know boys, shopping. The stuff that sisters are supposed to talk about," I sigh.

"That's helpful," Lena smiles, sitting down on her bed and inspecting a dress, "Why're you so chatty all of the sudden then? I thought you preferred to keep your head in a book."

"I do, but I just- I just feel, you know, like me and you aren't as close as we should be," I stutter, "I mean Thomas and Mia are together all the time. They've got so much in common and they spend every minute just- just talking and having fun and we- we don't. It's like we never talk." I turn my head away from her so she won't see the tear trickle down my face.

"Hey," Lena smiles, gripping my chin and turning my head towards her, wiping my tears away with a corner of one of her dresses, "Hey come on. We're talking now, see."

"About what?" I ask morosely and Lena bursts out laughing.

"Kid, that's not how talking works. You don't pick the topic then talk. You just let it flow," She smiles and wipes her eyes, "God, brain the size of Panem and you're still such an idiot sometimes. But sure, you want to talk about something, let's start with clothes. I think a nice white will look good on you." She lifts up a dress for my appraisal.

"Does it come with a hat?"

"Well no."

"Then could we find something else."

"You and your hats," Lena smiles, before reaching over and picking another, "This is cute."

"It's a little bright."  
"Well you want to stand out yeah? It's reapings, cut loose..."

* * *

I feel slightly less conspicuous in the outfit we settled on knowing that our escort has something much more obvious. I'm wearing a simple green ensemble with a rather nice matching sun hat that stands out considerably from the white smock clad children around me, but our escort is dressed in what I can only describe as looking like a black and white striped clown suit as she grimaces out at the crowd through her thin glasses.

I know I should know her name, after all she's been our escort for my entire life, but I never can keep names in my head, and Capitolites hardly have the most normal of names.

"Well boys and girls," the woman drawls, "Another year another Games."

I really don't understand why the Games hire this woman. She always sounds bored. I guess some people in the Capitol just like that sort of presenting though because she's been doing it for decades.

"I'm Roochy," Roochy! That's her name!, "And I'll be your escort today. You all know why I'm here, so let's cut the pleasantries and get down to business. Ladies first."

Roochy gives a bored smile as she plunges her hand into the first of the huge glass balls and clutches a slip of paper between her fingers.

As she lifts the paper I find myself holding my breath, although I'm not sure why.

Probability dictates that I have a one in one thousand chance of being picked. I think.

There are a lot of variable, it's not like I know how many people are in the District for example, but I'm pretty sure I'm safe.

It's not going to happen. I'm not going to the Games. There's only three little slips in there with my name on so I'm safe.

I scrunch my eyes shut as the name is called.

It's not going to happen.

"Maja Perdotter!"

Silence falls. The people in my section move to one side to allow me to the front and I stumble out into the walkway and towards the stage. I catch sight of Thea and Nina as I pass, but neither says anything, instead staring pitifully into my eyes. In the distance, I can hear muttering voices and someone crying, but my brain won't pull itself together to work out who it is.

As I step on stage and stand next to the escort, my mind is firing on all cylinders but still draws a blank. The eyes of the crowd, the voice of the escort, the sound of murmuring voices is drowning.

I don't even realise another name has been called until a boy climbs onto the stage next to me. The boy seems to be doing as badly as me. He's pale and shivering and he looks like he's about to faint as he turns to look out over the stage. His lips quiver, but no sound comes out and my heart goes out to him as he stares silently over the murmuring crowd.

I thought I was young for a tribute, after all the majority are sixteen or over, but he's even younger than I am.

I mumble a few encouragements to him as we shake hands, but he grimaces and doesn't meet my eyes and when I try to say something again, as we are led to our rooms, the glare I receive is so fierce that my voice dies in my throat.

Unsurprisingly, I haven't been waiting in the dingy corridor of the Peacekeeper headquarters for long when the door is pushed open and a great crowd barges in to say their goodbyes.

Lena is the first through the door, flinging her arms around me and staring tearfully into my eyes. My parents stand behind with my younger siblings, waiting to go next, so that Lena can talk to me alone.

"I'm so sorry," Lena bawls, her demeanor a world away from the calm, confident sister I know as her voice cracks from the strain, "I should of- I could- Oh God I don't know what I should have done but I sh- sould've- should have done something."

"Don't be," I force a smile, surprised at how serene my voice sounds, despite the fear that clouds my mind, "It's not like there's anything you could have done."

"I could have," the older girl gulps back tears, "I could have volunteered I shouldn't have let you- I'm supposed to look after you. I should have- should have- I'm a terrible sister."

I shake my head, "No, no you're not. You're just not stupid."

"Wh-what do you mean?" Lena's shining eyes stare down at me incredulously and I reach up, wiping her hair out of her eyes.

"Think about it, the family needs you, they don't need me. If you went to the Games who would look after Mia and Thomas when mom and dad can't? Besides, you make more money than me anyway. If you got reaped we'd never be able to manage."

I've never had to play older sister before. I've never had to hide my emotions to protect someone I love from despair. It's a tad ironic that the first time I get to do it it's with my older sister. I guess the world is just odd like that sometimes.

"I'm your sister," Lena sniffs, "I should have done something."

"Like what?" I ask, "Lena please there's nothing you can do. Just let me go."

"Okay," Lena sounds much smaller than she is as she releases me, wiping her tears away with a hand and allowing the rest of my family and friends to rush forwards and wrap me in their arms, "Just promise me you'll be okay."

"I can't," I say, "You know I can't. Probability dictates that-"

"Screw probability," Lena snarls, "You promise me you'll be okay or I will drag you out of here myself, Peacekeepers be damned."

"Fine," I say a tiny, and for the first time in what feels like a long long time, genuine smile blossoming on my face, "As improbable and stupid as it is. I promise I'll come back in one piece."

Lena gives me a sad grin, still wiping her eyes as she disappears under a tsunami of hugging arms and tearful eyes.

I'm about to face the Capitol, a small force of tributes who thirst for my own blood and the very laws of probability themselves.

And for some reason all I can think about is how glad I am that I'm wearing an outfit that the sponsors will like.

* * *

_And that's your lesson for today class. Tonight's homework is to answer the following..._

_**Nyrro asks: **__'What tactics would you use if you ever entered the Hunger Games?'_

* * *

_A/N: Unlike the last chapter, this week's chapter was actually very easy to finish, and I'm pretty happy with how it turned out. There are a few voice issues her and there, but I think all in all it's a pretty good work._

_Tribute slots are filling up now, but for all those who want to be a part of this, or maybe just feel like submitting a second tribute, we still have three spaces left. Good luck and may the odds be forever in your favour!_


	7. D3- The Imprisoned Thinker

_**From the Desk of the Games Makers: **__A Polite Psychotic Stranger is very interested in the following tribute. We're not really sure why she has shown such an interest in the poor boy but we wish both him and her the best and ask her to please get off our lawn. We can't sleep with you watching us._

* * *

**Chapter 6: The Imprisoned Thinker**

_Vyrus Bandaged, Age 13 (D3 Male)_

_Would talk like he swallowed a dictionary. If he could._

Have you ever wondered what it must be like to be a camera on a film set, or in the Hunger Games?

On the one hand, the camera has a better knowledge than anyone what's going on. It sees things that others miss because people, after a while, forget it was ever there. A couple of years ago a pair of tributes spent the night together. No one else knew, but the camera saw it. Silt Byellvlazhnyy spent her Games hiding in a hole under a tree and no one ever found her, but the camera saw every minute until she was dragged out a victor. The camera misses nothing.

But for all the insight it gives you, the camera might as well be a prison. Yes you can see everything that happens, but you can't interact with it. The camera can't open its mouth and say something, it can't reach out and touch anything. It just has to sit there watching and accept the fact that it can have no effect on the world around it.

Allow me to introduce myself.

Hi, I'm Vyrus Bandaged, I'm thirteen years old, five foot three and I have never spoken a word in my life.

I'll be your camera for today.

The window ledge on the third floor of one of the arms factories makes the perfect platform from which to view the school, and I'm glad I found it all those years ago.

Back when I still went there, this place gave me somewhere to run and hide when I couldn't take any more of the teacher's stupidity. Even Ms Chandri was too large to crawl the drainpipes like I could, so eventually the teachers just let me hide there and, when it became apparent I could learn no more from those insufferable retards, my parents took me out of school.

Nowadays I don't run away anymore, I come here to watch.

Why am I watching my old school? Clearly you've never tried having a conversation with people when you can't speak. To start with people are okay with it but, ultimately, they get creeped out and try to get away from you as fast as they can. You can't learn anything if people know you're there so, like our friend the camera in my previous analogy, I have to hide away, spying from a distance.

The bell's just gone and the kids are coming out to go to Reapings while, behind me, their parents file out with the same destination in mind.

It's eight in the morning. Exactly eight in the morning. Reapings will start at nine on the dot.

Everything in District Three is always impeccably timed like that. All the factories and schools start at the same time and finish at the same time and everyone has to be everywhere by exactly the right time or else. The Peacekeepers don't look kindly on lateness.

It's funny how much time the old farts in charge must waste coordinating this all, and all it ever manages to do is make everyone even more miserable and oppressed than they already were.

Is that irony? Don't know. Don't care that's what I'm gonna calling it. Irony's a cool word. Bet it's fun to say.

I'd like to see the Capitol try to control me like that.

Ha like they'd even come close! There's nothing the Capitol's invented to control Three that I can't find a way around.

All this timing, for example. Folks say that working as a shophand is the lowest of the low in Three, but for me it's nothing. Factory drones get up at five, I get up when I want. Factory drones work until nine, or eight on Reaping day, I work until I get bored. Factory drones answer to their custodians who answer to the Peacekeepers who answer to the Capitol. I just answer to Mike, the cobbler who's having an affair with the grocer's wife and spends his money in back alley brothels every other night of the week.

Like I said, you learn things when you watch, particularly when you don't have all those little distractions, like talking, to slow you down. Stuff like how people interact, how best to spot weakness and the birds and the bees are all interesting things I've learned from spying on others, Mike was particularly helpful with that last one.

Anyway, enough about my history of spying and on to my current pursuit.

I, of course, recognize all of the children who step out of the building. Even without my spying I know all of them from around the area, I've fitted shoes for most of them and I went to school with some of their older siblings, who now work in the factories, while I'm free to roam the streets.

Eddy is the first kid out, he wants to be a track athlete when he grows up, but he's most likely to end up as a Peacekeeper.

Kalvin, the boy behind him, is the adopted son of two prostitutes. Curie is the daughter of the grocer. He keeps buying her flowers whenever his parents bring him into town. It's real cute, but I doubt it'll last into factory work.

Nightingale likes drawing. Her and Sally spend every lunch drawing on the concrete with chalk.

Tesla's the granddaughter of one of the District's older victors and she lives with him since her parents died in a malfunction. He always sends someone to pick her up, usually her brother, rather than coming down himself. It's a smart move. Victors aren't welcome here.

I could go on but really why bother. The school playground is a dead end for a spy, full of obvious and banal information that anyone could get without much effort.

Really I much prefer the scandalous lives of the back alley dwellers like my employer, but prying into those particular lives has ended up almost getting me killed a few times, which is a few more than I'd really like. I appreciate living thank you very much and I'm not really a fan of ending up dead just because some no name goes crazy at me.

Fortunately for me, Ms Chandri and Mr Heck, the teachers who follow the students out, have much more interesting lives. You see Ms...

Oh crap they're looking at me!

The two stare, open mouthed at me and I smile casually, raising a hand and waving slowly. Ms Chandri's face flushes with rage and she turns to Mr Heck.

"Get the Peacekeepers," Chandri squawks, eyes wild, "There's a boy up there."

Heck turns his head to one side, his perpetual frown deepening slightly under his small mustache, "No Shivani, don't bother. It's just Cyber's runt. Leave the poor simpleton to it."

Simpleton? Simpleton! How dare he? My self assured smirk disappears in a flash as he speaks and I grit my teeth.

It's at times like this that I wish I was blind, or deaf, or lame or anything but dumb. I wouldn't mind being unable to see as long as I could jump down from here and give that dullard Heck a piece of my mind.

I'd scream at him until my face turned blue and I collapsed from lack of air.

Or I could reel off a list of words I've learnt from all that extra reading he never thought I did, using words he couldn't even guess the meanings for. I'd pay to see the look on his face then.

Or I could divulge all his embarrassing little secrets to dear Miss Chandri. I'm sure she'd be thrilled to discover just where those grants to fix up the school went.

But alas, I can do none of these things. Being a ready made Avox is humiliating. It's like being a sealed bottle, full of refreshing water that can never be used. And worse than that, people like Heck believe that, just because I can't articulate what's going on in my head, there must be nothing there.

They think that just because I can't jabber on, like any sufficiently trained monkey, that I am, dumb metaphorically as well as literally. Most people believe, as Heck so _eloquently _put it, that I am a simpleton.

Even my parents, though they realize I am far from stupid, don't understand how intelligent I really am.

But changing people's image of me is a problem to be solved later. For now I think a nice traditional flipping of the bird shall suffice for Heck and Chandri.

Having exacted my revenge with a simple motion, I scurry away over the drainpipes and slide down behind a Peacekeeper and into the crowd of bustling factory workers.

As I walk I try to catch a few snatches of conversation from the crowd around me.

Someone's having trouble paying off the Sharks of Factory Nine.

It's Reapings.

Someone else has just slipped a Peacekeeper a twenty to look the other way for some reason or another.

Did you hear it's Reapings?

A woman's daughter didn't come home last night. If you see her let her know.

Somebody wants to know who someone else thinks will get Reaped this...

My face falls as I spot an all to predictable trend in the conversation. The Reapings really ruins my week every time it comes around. I know I'm hardly a visionary for thinking this, but the Games are stupid and I hate them.

But not for the reasons most people hate them. Most people are idiots and, as such, hate them for stupid, obvious reasons because the Games takes away people they care about and is barbaric or whatever.

I personally don't care. I don't know anybody, at least not in the personal friendly way, so it's not surprising that _I've _never lost anyone I care about. If anything the Games does me a service by eliminating people from society so that I don't have to stretch myself remembering unimportant trivia about them.

No, I don't care about the killing, I care about the monopoly. I hate the Games for being so big that it eclipses all other aspects of life and, for a couple of weeks after it starts every year, everyone forgets about their lives and talks only about it. It is, in all honesty, one of the most boring times of the year.

And yeah I know, you must think I'm really shallow for just ignoring the death of other children like that, but think of it from my perspective for a minute.

Think of it from the perspective of the poor, ignored mute boy in the corner who you assholes never spoke to because he couldn't talk back and who could only hear about other people by listening into their conversations from afar.

Do you really expect me to care about you when your in a life and death situation a couple of hundred miles away, when you couldn't even care about me when I was right in front of you?

Because if you do, you're stupider than most Capitolites, and that's saying something.

The District square, an ironically named circular space, is where the Reapings are being held this year. It's connected to every major road in the District and as such I'm pretty familiar with it, having spent much of my life hanging around there, spying on people. As always the square is filled with noise, most of it inane, so I filter it out.

"Name please," a gruff looking Peacekeeper growls as I pass and I turn, sneering at him.

"Name," the man repeats. Obviously, I don't answer, but the dullard doesn't seem to cotton on. Unfortunately for me Peacekeepers aren't known for their brains, or their patience for that matter, so it's not surprising when I'm grabbed by the shoulder and forcefully turned to look into the moron's ugly blotched face.

"Quiet one uh?" the man drawls, putting so much emphasis on the words that it sounds like he's choking with every syllable. I really feel sorry for the man's poor vocal chords. At least mine, dead as they are, don't have to put up with this kind of abuse, "Well we have ways of making tough guys like you squawk."

I doubt it. But if you do happen to have some miracle cure for **muteness from birth** I'm listening. Idiot.

Unfortunately for me the ape's prescription for my condition appears to be pummeling me against a wall, which I'm not sure is that medically sound. Mercifully his punches hold all the force of an armless asthmatic octogenarian. It appears the Peacekeepers have really let their standards slip. I'll have to register a complaint as soon as this revolutionary new procedure returns my speech.

"Stubborn brat," the Peacekeeper grunts, pulling back his hand and preparing to backhand me in the face.

"Stop it," the Peacekeeper turns, furious and finds himself staring into the face of a tall, blue haired Capitolite who I recognize as Aurus, a Peacekeeper who's only a little over eighteen. I hear he trained like a dog to get to be a initiate at such a young age but, judging by how little concern he gives for Peacekeeper codes of conduct though, I believe his parents probably just volunteered him to stop him from ruining the family with his gambling addiction.

"Or I'll have you reported for needless brutality," Aurus smirks. It's a pretty hollow threat, the Capitol normally only docks pay for such a crime, but it's enough to give the older man pause.

"I'm in my rights," he growls, "The boy wasn't answering."

"Oh dear," Aurus' tone is one I would love dearly to recreate, a tone of mockery, "What a horrific crime for a mute child to commit. Clearly an executable offence."

"I oughta report you for speaking to an officer with that tone," the older man glowers.

"And I ought to report you for extreme incompetence," Aurus' voice is matter-of-fact, "His name's Vyrus Bandaged. I just signed him off. 'Cos, you know, I was doing my job properly instead of getting pissy at kids with disabilities."

I resent that, but it's not like I can say anything, and I am grateful when the older Peacekeeper puts me down and stomps away, his face creased with hatred.

"That's that sorted," Aurus beams as he frog marches me over to my section, "It's nice to get a little respect once in a while."

I don't respond. I don't even look at him, hiding my eyes behind my hair.

"Feels good to help the little guy out sometimes."

I'm not little. I mean yeah I'm not tall, but I'm an okay height for my age.

"You know give a little back to the community, keep the peace between the Peacekeepers and all that..."

I let him ramble. Let's see where this goes.

"You know a thanks would be nice" Aurus' smile shrinks slightly, "I mean, yeah, I'm not expecting you to speak, but a smile or a nod or something would be fine. Maybe a handshake? You know I'm trying to be nice here, a little respect would be great."

I knew it! He's after something. People always are when they help me. Maybe he wants money to fuel that not so secret gambling habit of his or maybe he just wants a favour. Either way he's not getting anything out of me.

"No?" Aurus frowns, "Not even the tiniest thank you?"

Yeah right, like that's all he wants. If I give him that, it'll just be something else next week. That's the problem with so called 'friends' they all want something for nothing.

Well sorry to tell you this kids, but the world doesn't work like that.

"Nothing?"

I smirk slightly and shake my head. He wants something out of me, but he'll have to push a lot to get it.

"Fine, you know what I should have left you for Mason. Next time you're on your own!"

Aurus snarls and stalks away.

"God no wonder none of the other kids hang out with you. Retard."

Well, that was a lovely experience now wasn't it. You learn a little about someone each day. I, for example, just learnt that Mr Aurus has quite a temper. Not that I couldn't already tell that by looking at him.

I file obediently into my pen with the other thirteen year olds, quickly noting my compatriots moods. Most of the kids in my pen look like they're almost in tears with nerves, the little fools. Don't they realise that they have nothing to worry about. If, by some miracle, any of the poor saps do get reaped, then they can start worrying about it but until then, worry seems a little premature.

A few kids, the ones who I understand even less than the wimps, are staring doe eyed at our mentor Ruchy or one of the District's many mentors, mainly Ms Cavendish. I personally don't understand the appeal. I mean Cavendish is rather good looking, barring the scars of course, but Ruchy? She makes my skin crawl just looking at her. The dull monotone voice doesn't do her any favours of course.

All the way through the speeches I find myself drifting off. I just can't really bring myself to really care about the dusty old drivel the mayor and Ruchy run off every reapings. I swear it's the exact same every year. I'm pretty sure I catch Ruchy looking at cue cards at one point.

The first thing to really draw my attention is Ruchy reaching into the Reaping ball and drawing a name.

"Maja Perdotter," Ruchy sounds like she's sighing. I'd be sighing too if I were our escort. Maja Perdotter is not going to be winning District Three any Games any time soon.

She's a high level production drone, age thirteen. Works in the QCA division of the factory on 26th street. Dreams of working in SCD. I have to admit my knowledge of her outside that is pretty hazy, since I rarely see her outside, and have been forced to ascertain what I can from her more sociable, and in my opinion rather stunning, sister. I hear she's quite the mathematical savant. We'll see whether that is much aid to her in the arena.

But enough about her, on with the show! I lean forwards expectantly as Ruchy reaches into the Reaping ball, my smirk wide on my face. Which poor schmuck will be representing us this year, hmm?

"Vyrus Bandaged."

Oh. How very karmic of you universe.

My face drops as the crowd parts before me and I glare down the few people who offer me words of sympathy as I creep out. I don't need their pity, not if I wasn't good enough for it back before I was reaped.

I begin to realise as I make my way up to the stage, just how young I am and how unlikely it is that I'll be coming back alive.

No. Focus. I need to concentrate on how I'm going to win. I have plans, mostly plans cobbled together from numerous snatches of other peoples conversations on the Hunger Games but still, I'm not altogether unprepared. But then again I always thought that, if I were Reaped, it would be when I was older. When I was eighteen or seventeen. Not now. Not when I'm still... still just a kid.

It's impossible to stop my eyes from stinging as I make my way to the stage, but I'm glad I manage to suppress tears.

I don't want them to see me cry and think I'm weak.

Ah who am I kidding? They all think I'm weak anyway. They probably believe I'm some poor dumb idiot, too stupid to fully comprehend my situation. They'd probably understand if I cried.

Still not going to cry though. I have my pride.

Ruchy calls for volunteers, but it's a pointless exercise. No one ever volunteers and, even if they did, no one will volunteer for me.

"Don't worry..." Maja whispers, her voice shaking with nerves but sounding strangely emotionless as Ruchy presses our hands together, "I-If you wa-want me, I'll be there for you."

I scoff and turn away. I don't need an alliance with her. I need an alliance with tributes who actually stand a chance of surviving the Bloodbath. Besides, even if she does survive she's just going to try to take me out later anyway.

Unless I can keep her guessing.

My body feels very small and my heart very large as the Peacekeepers come and escort us off the stage.

* * *

As soon as my parents step into the corridor for my goodbye the dam breaks and everything I've been storing up in my eyes comes pouring out.

I don't know if you've ever heard a child with no voice cry, but I wouldn't recommend it. It's an ugly, wet sound like a retching dog. I try to hide my tears with my sleeve as my father wraps me up in his huge arms, but it's a futile attempt. Before I know it my shirt sleeve is soaking and tears and mucus is spilling down my face, seeping insidiously into my mouth and staining my father's shoulder. His own sticky tears mat my hair, which I'm sure I'll hate later, but at the moment I can barely even register it.

It's like my brain is broken and all my confidence and dignity has seeped out. My eyes feel better, but I feel horribly queasy and there's a knot in my stomach so large it could disprove the laws of physics.

All I can think is how much I'm going to miss them and how useless I am and how I never told them I loved them.

I ne-never told them I loved them.

I've wanted to be able to talk so badly for so long, but I've never felt it like this. This is a painful, heartrending yearning eating me from the inside out. I just want them to know I'm so grateful for all they did for me and how much I love them. I want them to hear the sound of my voice. I want to reassure them and tell them I'll be alright.

I want to tell them to stop crying.

I want to tell myself to stop crying.

I want to tell them I love them.

I want... I want... I...

But I can't. All I can do is stare pathetically, desperately into their eyes as they reassure me. As they tell me they love me.

I should be doing this. I open my mouth to say something, but no sound comes out.

"We love you son," my mother repeats, "Don't worry yo-you'll be fine."

She's thinking about the Games. She's thinking about me dying. I don't want her thinking about that. She- she shouldn't be.

"Use your brain," my dad smile is so sorrowful that it wrenches at the corners of my stomach and makes me cry all the deeper, scrunching up my eyes to keep it out, "You've got a good head on your shoulders. Use it and no one'll be able to touch you."

I gulp back my tears for a second and force a smile. They should see me smile. It must be horrible for them to see me cry, but at least there's something they can do about it.

My effort is terrible and while my lip quivers my eyes remain huge sad pools that I can't stop from flooding.

My parents are, in my own unbiased opinion, the best. They're the only intelligent people other than me who I've ever met.

And I never got to tell them that.

They're the only people who matter to me.

The only people who I'd ever call my friends. Heck, they're the only people I'd let be my friends.

They never looked down on me or saw me as an idiot or a retard because I couldn't speak. They never wanted anything from me. They just helped me because they cared for me and for no other reason, not like those other selfish jerks.

And I'll never get to tell them that.

My parents turn away as the Peacekeeper comes to take them, their last image of me, a tiny frightened child with an awful fixed smile that is betrayed by his raining eyes, seared onto their minds.

I need to tell them, not just with actions, but with words.

I step forwards to chase after them, but a Peacekeeper holds me back and I try to shout.

Nothing escapes my lips except air.

Maybe if I scream loud enough I can fight back, I can force my voice box to work properly, just this once.

My mouth moves wordlessly, like a fish gulping for water.

Louder! Come on louder! Force all the air out of your lungs.

Only tears flow, and they tumble soundlessly onto the carpet beneath my feet.

Please God, just this once! Let me speak just this once! I'll do anything! If you let me do this I'll go to my death in the Games like you seem to want me to, and I'll do it with the stupidest smile on my face!

"mrrghk... gkk... crrdkg..." the tiniest choke escapes my lips and my throat immediately responds by doubling over in pain and shutting like a vice.

I fall breathlessly to the floor and lie, dead to the world, for goodness knows how long, the world silent except for my seething mind.

My life makes sense to me now. I understand why I'm a camera.

God's mocking me. God or the gods or whatever's up there is mocking me, laughing at my pain. That's why they did this to me. They found it amusing to give me all this brainpower, all this potential, just so they could take my voice and send me to my death without even once being able to tell my family how dear they are to me.

God's like every sick voyeur in the Capitol who watches it the Games for sport. He enjoys watching little tragedies unfold in the ocean of life and people wreck themselves upon the rocks.

He's a lot like me as well, when I watch the world from the third storey windowsill of the factory opposite the school.

And that thought makes me sick. Literally, physically sick all over my shirt.

Thick yellow and orange vomit mingles with tears and snot on my grey shirt and I wretch, the sensation causing me to vomit again, this time in a greener, softer dirge.

Once I'm sure no more can come from my throat I pull off my shirt, making sure not to get any more on my skin as I wrap it into a bundle and throw it on the floor, sinking down onto my knees and wiping my eyes and mouth, in that order to save anything nauseous getting into my eyes.

God has decided that I die as his little joke has he?

But like everyone, like even my parents, God has underestimated me.

I grab hold of a supporting Peacekeeper and pull myself to my feet, ignoring his yelps of protest as the disquieting concoction contained in my shirt smears against his pristine white uniform.

I'm not just some weakling. I'm not just some useless kid who can't fight the tide of reality.

I'm a genius, the cleverest person of my age in the entire District, whether or not anyone knows it, and I have been caged up for far too long. My mind is a hurricane compressed to the size of the tip of the pin and the pressure has been building since conception.

And once I release it, nothing will hold it back. Not even all the Arenas ever created, right the way back to the ancients who inspired the Capitol to make their barbaric sport, will be able to hold me.

Twenty three tributes, most of whom are by all probability older, stronger and better practiced than me, stand in my way and behind them is the full power of the entire Capitol.

Personally I like those odds.

It's me against the world. We'll see which one is left standing at the end.

* * *

_And now for a short intermission. While we're gone put your feet up, grab your favourite drink and answer the next..._

_**Nyrro asks: **__'What would you/ your tribute wear in the Chariot Rides?'_

_A/N: This tribute was a very difficult one to write, partly because they couldn't speak and partly because I was attempting to give them a unique, slightly fourth wall breaking style of narration, but I think it was worth it. Seriously this chapter was one of the most fun ones I think I've ever written and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it._

_Unfortunately to all of you who might have wanted to send in a tribute, spaces are now full. Sorry about that._


	8. D4- The Little Rebel

**F**_**rom the Desk of the Games Makers: **__Today's tribute is supported by the Ruetheday memorial fund, commemorating everyone's favourite tribute. Well, everyone's favourite tribute from the 74__th__ Games anyway. Well actually only Judex's favourite. Personally I'm more a fan of Thresh but whatever, Rue's good too I guess._

_Wait, wasn't I supposed to be introducing something..._

* * *

**Chapter 7: The Little Rebel**

_Saspar Aloen, Age 13 (D4 Female)_

_District Four's Gavroche_

Mainland kids have a lot of misconceptions about us District Four dwellers. They say we're all rich, blood thirsty Careers who talk like pirates.

Personally I think anyone who says that could learn a lesson from coming down here to meet us. We're not all stereotypes you know. I'm pretty sure I don't swill rum and have a peg leg and I'm certainly not a bloodthirsty psycho, so I don't really see how I could be a pirate or a Career.  
As for riches, well I don't know. Does having to sleep on the rotting floor of an old, lice filled boat house with a leaking roof and bits of dried-on fish innards on the walls sound like riches to anyone?

No?

Well then could someone please tell my sister, because the way she goes on you'd think we lived in a five star hotel in the center of Hospitality Square in the Capitol.

"I don't have time for this," my sister fumes as she bustles around the tiny room, "I do not have time for this. I've been working all night and I have another shift in four hours and what greets me when I get home? You sleeping like a baby, not a care in the world! Are the chores done? Are they heck! You were supposed to be up two hours ago!"

Rubbing my eyes and groaning I roll over and out from under my sheets, which Cassie is frantically stuffing into a corner. Flicking my tangled blond hair out of my eyes I glare up at her from where I lie on my chest on the cold wood floor.

"I overslept," I answer simply, "I had a late night."

"_You _had a late night?" Cassie's face flushes red with fury, "I stay up till three in the morning working down at the docks and you're the one who had a late night? Why you can't even be bothered..."

I try to zone her out but in the confined space of the boathouse it's impossible.

"...And you're not even dressed yet! On Reaping Day of all days!"

"C'mon sis," I groan, looking down at my baggy green pajamas, "It's a holiday. We don't have to work today."

Or at least I can't work. Today's too important for distractions like chores and cleaning. I need to be ready.

Today's the most important day of my life.

"And I suppose you want us to live on prayers and good will," my sister sighs, "Well that's all very nice Saspar, but we don't live in a luxury suite in Hospitality Square you know..."

Hey! That was my line! Stupid Cassie, stealing my jokes.

"We have to work for our keep, and if we haven't got this place cleaned and set up for sale by the time we need to go to the Reapings, we're not going to be ready to sell to the crowd coming back."

I've heard this rant a bajillion times before, and every time just makes me want to obey her less.

I mean who does she think she is ordering me around? Seriously, I get that she's my older sister but who made her mom?

I pull a face and stand to my feet, "Fine I'll head down to the crews and pick up what we need. Four barrels should be good for the day right?"

"What and leave me to tidy up your mess?" Cassie sneers.

Oh great here comes The Speech. The one about how she's my big sister not my caretaker and I need to pull my own weight and blah blah blah. I don't have time for The Speech. Not today.

"I don't think so! I'm your big sister you know not your care taker you can... don't you walk away when I'm talking to you!"

But it's too late. In the time my sisters been rambling I have walked out the door and over the pier and have slipped into the water outside. My sister makes after me, running to the water's edge, but stops at the edge. Already dressed in her, decidedly grubby, Reaping Best and not wanting to get them wet, she turns back, mutters something about how much she wants to kill me sometimes and disappears inside, mop in hand.

Cassie used to be so much happier when we were younger. I remember sitting on the edge of our old house with her fishing during the day and counting the stars at night. We'd go swimming together each morning and spend most of our days playing in the waves and down on the pier.

She had a nickname for me you know, Pixi. Nowadays everyone calls me it. Well everyone except Cassie.

She was a wonderful, caring big sister and I couldn't have asked for a better one. I didn't have a care in the world.

And then our parents disappeared.

It wasn't a big event in the great scheme of things. They were just ordinary fish mongers and there are plenty of those in the District, so no one outside the family really noticed. They just got in their battered old trawler one day, tied off and never came back.

Most people figured they died, broken on the rocks in a storm, but I know better. I know they're still alive and I have a pretty good idea of where to find them.

But enough looking back. I can't afford to look back today. I can't think about my family. There's too much at stake.

It feels like I'm weightless as I swim, my hair and pj's spreading out around me like they're a separate organism, possessing a mind completely of its own. I glide under the water, dodging small early morning fishing boats and larger tugs as I make my way to the market by the shortest way possible.

It sounds dangerous I know, but once you're used to it swimming here's really not. In fact most mongers, me and Cassie included, still transport fish this way, since it's often easier to carry stuff this way than through the thin streets of the District. Dodging boats is just like dodging cars in the Capitol. It's hooks that are the dangerous obstacle.

Coincidentally it is just at this moment that my left middle toe catches on one such hook, tugging at the skin and causing me to squeal in pain. The tall, freckled ginger in charge of the fishing line awakes with a start and peers over the side of the pier to see where all the racket's coming from.

"Huhwuhzeh," the boy mumbles sleepily, before rubbing his eyes and staring down at me, "P-Pix, is that you?"

"Yeah," I wince, lifting my leg and plucking the hook from it, "Heya Fych."

Fych is, well was, an old friend of Cassie's back before mom and dad disappeared. I think she dated him or something but I never did get the true story on that. He's a lot older than me, nineteen this year, but I still hang out with him a lot. We have similar interests, shall we say.

Cassie doesn't hang out with him much anymore. She says she doesn't have time. I sometimes wonder just what Cassie still does have time for.

"Hey, um, are you okay?" Fych sounds nervous as he helps me out of the water.

"Yep!"

"But my hook..." he trails off, "Doesn't that hurt?"

"Sure it does, but I'll be fine," I smile, rolling up my sleeve to reveal a row of little dark red cuts where hooks once caught there. "See? I get these all the time. So how's fishing? Caught anything."

Fych rubs the back of his head, "Not unless your a fish. It's a real slow day."

"Guess the fish have all gone to Reapings too then."

Fych laughs, "Yeah, guess they're all at Reapings." I just used that joke, but I like Fych, so I'll let him steal it.

Fych is a nice guy. Even though he'd probably have every right to treat me like an annoying brat, Fych never talks down to me, and he's not an idiot like most of the guys my age. He's a darn side nicer to me than Cassie at least.

"So," Fych bites his lip as he looks down at me, "Today's the day."

"Yep, today's the day."

"You sure you're up for this?" I nod. "We could send someone else if you're scared..."

"I'm not scared."

"...Fortes has a lot of members, one of the older kids could..."

"Fych read my lips," I sigh, pointing at my mouth as I speak, "I'm. Not. Scared."

We say nothing more on the matter as he hauls his supplies onto his back and we head for market. Nothing more needs to be said.

Today is the Reapings of the One Hundred and Second Games. Today is the most important day of my life.

Today is the day I bring down the Capitol from the inside.

I was eight or maybe seven, I can't quite remember, when I first became involved in Fortes, or La Revolution as I like to call it, an anti-Capitol rebellion group set up in the heart of District Four. We're a small group, but we've subverting the tyranny of Panem for years, by giving food and asylum to the people the Capitol deems criminals and occasionally snatching a few things that were supposed to stay in Peacekeeper hands. It's pretty low level stuff compared to the cells in the higher Districts and the Capitol but every little helps.

A couple of years back Hattie asked for volunteers. Yeah those kind of volunteers. You see the she'd decided that what we were doing was too low key, they said that we could do all we liked, but in the end all our work would be for nothing if we couldn't get into the hearts and minds of the Capitol and sow the seeds of doubt. But the thing is the Capitol don't listen to the Districts (except maybe Two but they're all a bunch of kiss asses anyway).

There was only one way we'd be able to get the Capitol to sit up and take notice and that was through the Hunger Games. We needed someone to volunteer who could let the cells in the Districts and the sympathisers in the Capitol know we're not all Careers and Four is ready to do its bit, and I was one of the kids who put my hand up.

In truth I think Hattie only let me volunteer to shut me up, but I don't care. I wanted to feel like I was doing something meaningful.

Up until then all I'd ever done was run messages behind the Peacekeepers backs. It was an exciting job, but it wasn't exactly necessary. I felt like a mascot more than anything else, like I was just a load holding the rest of the guys back. It's bad enough when it's just Cassie I'm holding back, I didn't want to be a burden to anyone else.

We're passing a large shop on the corner of the pier when a sudden rustle from inside catches our attention. A woman in a battered coat is peeking through a cracked window. She catches sight of us and smiles.

"Fych, Pixi, c'mere woudja?" Hattie whispers, beckoning us over and slipping the door open so we can enter.

The inside of her shop is a tip, and I say that as someone who has to live in a boathouse, since the Peacekeepers turfed us out of our old digs. Fishing hooks and bait lie around tipped up boxes. Clothes, the odd sandwich and a couple of antiques which look like they might have once had value, but are too damaged to be possibly worth anything now, are scattered around various surfaces. Next to a series of maps of the Districts, with various bits highlighted or hand drawn lies what might once have been a ship in a bottle, but is now a pile of glass and so many wooden pieces.

In fact the only thing that does appear to be well kept is a half bottle of whiskey lying on its side on the counter. Swiping it up, Hattie unstops the bottle and takes a long swig.

For a leader of a revolutionary cell, Hattie's a pretty pathetic sight. Despite being in her early thirties, her clothing and drinking habit gives the impression of a woman who's nearly fifty and she's known throughout the District for her sour attitude and reclusive nature. Nevertheless she is one of my favorite people in the whole world.

You see it was here, six years ago, that I first heard the Thirteen Conspiracy.

I was passing by one day on my way back from market, when I overheard her muttering about District Thirteen to someone. Curious I asked her about it, but she chased me off. Looking back I was stupid to ask then, there were too many Peacekeepers watching after all, but I was just a kid and I didn't know any better. Later that night however, she came to find me by the pier and told me what she knew. District Thirteen, long since thought destroyed, was very much alive. It was home to all sorts of rebels and escapees from every District who had one day just upped anchor and, as far as anyone from the Capitol knew, disappeared.

Just like my parents.

It only took me seconds to make the connection and, before I knew it I was back at Hattie's every day bombarding her with questions. The more I asked the more she told and as the days passed by I found a world more interesting than any history class. I heard of the Mockingjay, the Seventy Fourth 'Victorless' Hunger Games, the Quell that wasn't and so many other things and, as the world opened up to me I found myself spending less and less time with my schoolmates and more time with the odd bunch of outcasts who called themselves Fortes. Some of them, like Fych, I knew already while others were new to me, but we swiftly became friends and, before I knew it I was a member of Fortes. No one asked me to come, but then again no one asked me to go away either so I stuck around, the youngest person in our group by over half a decade.

Back in the present, Hattie stares at me over her horned rimmed glasses and grimaces. "So yer it? I min yer th'las'n right?"

Once I've worked out what she's saying I answer with a nod, "Yes ma'am, I'm the last volunteer and I'm ready to go!"

Hattie shakes her head, "Nope. Not happening. Not this year."

"What!" me and Fych squeal in unison.

"What I said," Hattie growls, "Yer too young."

"But, but," my mouth shakes wordlessly as my eyes begin to sparkle with tears, "I've been planning all year."

"Great," Hattie smiles, "Volunteer when your eighteen."

"But I want to volunteer this year," I reply, "I've got everything prepared. I've chosen my token, I stayed up real late last night planning strategies. I'm ready."

"No your not. You'll stand a much better chance of winning if you wait..."

"I don't care about winning," I cry, "I want to help!"

"Pixi," Hattie's voice is soothing as she rests an arm on my shoulder, but her breath smells of whiskey, "You are helping and I'm glad you want to volunteer for this, but you were never supposed to volunteer. I let you go because I thought it would be easier to get one of our older volunteers in and we wouldn't need you, but we've had real trouble getting them on stage before a Career gets up there."

"And that's exactly why you need me," I explain, "I've got it all planned out. See Careers are generally tall and when the name's called they all rush for the stage at once and use there arms to block each other. But I'm super short and I'm closer to the stage, so I should be able to get myself up there quicker before they have a chance."

"Pixi, dear, I understand you're eager to please but just," Hattie downs a little more whiskey, "Just wait a couple of years. We're not ready yet."

"Why not?" I retort my sorrow turning to anger in a flash, "The Capitol's not going to wait a couple of years! The Hunger Games is now whether we're ready or not, and they'll keep doing it until we're ready. No until you're ready, because I'm ready now!"

"Pixi, you're only a child. You need to wait till your eighteen so you can..."

"So I can what? Wait around training? Learn how to kill so I can be just like every other kid from Four who entered the Games? So we can show the rest of Panem that we're all killers, just like they said? Hattie, if I don't do it now the Capitol isn't going to see a brave rebel, they'll just see another Career killing another bunch of children for glory. And even if I don't win this year, so what, people'll always remember me if they think I'm some sort of prodigy!"

Hattie opens her mouth to answer then closes it then opens it again. Desperately she turns to Fych, who shrugs.

"Sorry Hats, but I gotta agree with Pixi on this. I mean, the whole reason we're doing this is to subvert peoples expectations of Four. Show them that we're not all just Careers and find some sympathetic allies in the higher Districts. Sending someone with years of special training would kind of ruin the point."

Hattie stares long and hard into my eyes, and for a moment I can see a sadness I never noticed before, but before I can understand it she has turned away and is swigging her alcohol.

"Fine," she sighs, "you think you can pull this off. Go for it. But yer our last chance got it. You muss up an' we gotta start from square one all over again. Got it?"

"I got it," I reply, saluting, "I won't let you down."

Hattie smiles and ruffles my hair, "You're a good kid, Pixi, don't ever change."

"Though you might wanna change into something nice," Fych chuckles, and I become uncomfortably aware of the fact that I am still dressed in nothing but sopping wet pajamas which cling to my skin.

"Nah don't bother," Hattie chuckles, "You'll be more memorable like that. Now y' realise I ain't comin' to say goodbye to ya."

"Yeah," I say, unable to keep the slight disappointment out of my voice, "I figured. It'd be weird for Four's biggest recluse to venture out just to say goodbye to me."

"Well... good luck."

"Thanks."

Silence falls for a moment.

"Oh for goodness sake," Casting aside her bottle, Hattie pulls me in to a quick hug, before shoving me softly away before I can even return it. "Give those Capitolites hell from me Pixi. Show 'em what Fortes is made of and what we stand for. As for you, Fych, keep me posted, anything happens to her let me know."

Fych bows theatrically and the two of us head for the exit.

Finding the Reapings isn't hard, it always takes place in the west fish market after all, nor is listening through the speeches. Personally I always find Pizzo, our District escort, funny, with his silly checkered pink and purple jacket and his crazy teal quif. He looks kind of like a clown. In fact with the what I know about the Thirteen Conspiracy, the whole video they show every year and the proclamations they read becomes rather farcical, and the whole thing becomes rather enjoyable in a silly way.

Hattie would probably say I'm being a hypocrite for liking this since I work for a revolutionary group that's trying to bring down the Games, but can you blame me? I mean it's not like I'm into killing, I just enjoy the festivities. I'm not a grown up yet. I'm still allowed to have my fun until I reach eighteen and then I can go all grumpy and serious. That's how it works!

It's certainly how it worked for Cassie.

"Are you ready?" Pizzo roars, teetering around on his gigantic platform shoes, and I cheer along with everyone else, "I said are you ready?" I cheer louder.

If only they knew I'm not cheering for the Games, I'm cheering for the end of them. I wonder if most of the people in this District would be happy or sad if the Games ended? Cassie probably wouldn't care. I don't think she'd even notice, what with how work oriented she is nowadays.

"Well then!" Pizzo roars, "Without further ado!"

"LADIES FIRST!" I bounce up and down on my feet in anticipation.

"You know the drill," Pizzo cackles, "Syl-"

"I volunteer!"

I'm not the only one who screams, it, but I am the one who draws the most attention. The girls around me in the nearly leap a mile in the air when they hear me, two Careers at the front of the stampede practically faint when I step out and dart on stage, even Pizzo looks slightly taken aback.

"Well now isn't this a surprise," He gives a nervous chuckle, "I was expecting someone a little older."

"I was expecting someone a little taller." A wave of laughter runs through the crowd and Pizzo's hesitant smile becomes more confident.

"Ah but of course, age isn't everything. What's your name my dear?"

"I'm Saspar Aloen," I chirp, "But you can call me Pixi!"

The crowd bursts into raucous cheering as Pizzo calls for the next contestant and I breath a sigh of relief, deflating.

As Careers rush for the stage, colliding with each other and generally causing havoc, I decide to take a look behind me.

Two of the Victors are staring at me. A pair of thin brothers both with droopy grey-brown hair and incredibly pale skin stand a little away from the rest. They look identical, except for a battered coat that one wears and a sickle shaped scar on the others cheek.

Two sets of dark, buggy eyes bore into me and the victors thin, twin smiles grow as they catch me peeking back at them.

One of them lifts his hand up to his mouth and whispers to his brother whose smile widens still further, splitting his cheeks so far that I'm worried his head might topple off.

My attention is diverted from them by the cheer of the crowd. It seems that my partner has just taken the stage.

"Claude Winters," the boy, if I can call him that, introduces himself. He's huge, with dyed blue and red hair and clothing that looks like it should be on a Capitolite model. In fact that's what he looks like, a model, all smiles and chiseled features. There's no way he's not a Career. "Victor of the 102nd Hunger Games!"

Oh yeah, he's definitely a Career.

"District Four's tributes for the 102nd Hunger Games everyone!" Pizzo cheers and the crowd roar their approval, "The lovely Saspar Aloen and the wonderful Claude Winters!"

"Pixi huh?" Claude smiles lazily as our hands are pressed together, "Cute name, kid. If ya don't mind me sayin' I really like your style."

"Thanks," I smile bobbing my head enthusiastically, "I really like your... err... hair!" He snickers and I beam up at him. He seems nice enough, if a little arrogant but it's not like I have to put up with him for long. Heck, I think he'll make a pretty great District partner. Maybe I could even convince him that I'm some sort of prodigy and ingratiate myself with the Careers. That'd be useful, after all Capitolites always watch the Careers so the more time I spend with them the more exposure Capitol audiences will have to Fortes.

Despite being dripping wet and rather shabby I feel like Queen of Panem as I'm escorted of the stage. Right, time to start a revolution!

* * *

"How dare you!"

As revolutions go, this is a pretty bad start.

"I can't believe you'd be so inconsiderate to just run off and volunteer like that! Don't you realise people die in those Games? Why couldn't you just leave it to a Career? But nooo! You have to be a hero, well I'll tell you something Miss..."

I mean I always thought Cassie would be happy to see me go. She certainly always going on about what a chore it is having me around.

"And do you have any idea what you're getting yourself into? I mean really! You don't have any training at all! How do you expect to even make it past the Bloodbath."

"Cassie," I begin, resting my hand on her shoulder, "I know this might sound crazy, but I'm not doing this to win."

"H-how can you say that?" Cassie splutters, "Of course you're doing it to survive. If you aren't then why did you even volunteer?"

"To put an end to these Games and to find mom and dad!" I cry, waving my arm in the air triumphantly.

"Saspar," Cassie stiffens and looks over towards the Peacekeeper who stands by the door, "Don't. Not this again. Can't you just face facts instead of throwing your life away?"

"They're not dead Cassie," I grin confidently at her, my eyes sparkling, "They're in District Thirteen and as soon as they see me and the Capitol sees me they'll know that it's time to rise up!" I like this next bit. I spent hours working out what I was going to say so I'd get it just right, "And then they'll shake off the chains of oppression and this world will once again be made of peace and love!"

"Oh Saspar you mustn't say that," Cassie's voice is filled with terror as she eyes the Peacekeeper, who I think might be laughing, "It's treason. Everybody knows District Thirteen is-"

"District Thirteen is what, Miss Aloen?" the gangly stick insect like form of one of the two twin victors fills the doorway.

My sister opens her mouth, the colour draining out her face as she attempts to speak, "Muh- meh- Mr Phobos, w-wh-what brings you here?"

"Well we thought a farewell was the perfect place to introduce ourselves," Phobos drawls, "It's Deimos by the way dear. I'm the one with the nice coat. Oh and could you leave us please? We'd like some time to say hello."

"S-sorry, sir," Cassie lowers her head and sadly slips away.

Despite the rant she was giving me, I'm actually really sad to see Cassie go. It's a miserable sight to see her exit without even getting to say goodbye, but I can't say I'm surprised. She really isn't the sister I used to know.

Old Cassie wouldn't have stood for someone just coming in and interrupting her like this but, then again, Cassie never was the same after mom and dad left us. It's like all her energy and passion went with them and suddenly nothing mattered.

Least of all me.

"I must say, Pixi was it?" Deimos smile is larger than it was before and only seems to be growing as he gives me his full attention, "We were very impressed when you came on stage. It's so rare to see young tributes these days, particularly in Four and it's such a shame. You really are rather interesting. I mean there's no way you can win, but you've got spirit. We like that."

"Oh um thank you?" I murmur, somewhat taken aback.

"And we'd like to help you."

His smile is sharp and somehow emotionless as he watches for a reaction, his eyes giving nothing away. I am suddenly very aware of how small I am as he stares at me, just a little girl wrapped in musty pajamas. But I try to make sure my face doesn't betray me. If I want to win these Games I'm going to have to start guarding my emotions, and I might as well start with my mentor.

"Why do you want to help me?" I ask, feeling a shiver run down my spine as the ghoul of a mentor takes a slouching step closer, "Wouldn't you rather help Claude? I mean you said yourself that I'm not going to win."

"Well, not without help. And no we wouldn't rather help Claude. He's a little... oh what's the word? Dense? Shallow? I don't know but the important thing is you're not. You're much more interesting and, honestly, you could benefit from some private lessons." He hisses, leaning over me and sneering.

"And what if I don't want your private lessons."

Deimos shrugs, "Then you'll definitely die. There's not really much middle ground here Sass. Can I call you Sass? Anyway, point is, if you accept our help you stand at least, let's say, a one in fifty chance."

It's not very reassuring, but at least it's help and if there's one thing Fortes taught me it's that you should never turn down help regardless of where it comes from. Whether it's a crooked Peacekeeper or this crazy clown of a mentor.

"What's so 'interesting' about me?" I ask, raising my eyebrows.

"You're happy," Deimos' smile seems genuine for the first time since we started talking, "I haven't seen a kid who's that happy about going to the Games in forever, and not in the cocky Career way either. It's like you've got a purpose whether you live or die, like you're part of something bigger. There was a girl, back when we were about your age, from one of the higher Districts, name was Edinburgh or something. She had spirit just like you. And she died. Disappointing really, but I guess that is why they call it the Victorless Games. We always said that a kid like that from Four could go far. A kid like that from Four could win if they put their mind to it, because they'd have something that Miss Coalminer never had and do you know what that is?"

"What?"

Deimos smile widens, "A competent mentor. Well two, but hey who's counting?"

* * *

_It's time to play the music, it's time to light the lights, it's time to ask the questions on the..._

_**Nyrro Asks: **__'If you could live in any District, which would it be?'_

_A/N: This chapter is a bit of an odd one and, truthfully, I feel it's a little exposition heavy. Still there's nothing in it I think is really all that unnecessary so I suppose it just had to be that way._

_What do you think? As always please remember to review, even if you don't have a tribute. It's soon going to be possible to sponsor through review, so count that as a little extra incentive for those of you sitting on the fence._


	9. D4- The Cocky Gambler

_**From the Desk of the Games Makers: **__The following tribute is supported by the JGrayzz industries, a partner and friend during our brief stint as a part of the 24tributes24authors collaborative project. Due to strong language the following chapter is rated PG and may be unsuitable for small children. We remind parents that the extent of a child's exposure is strictly the responsibility of the parents and not the fault of President Nicoilean, HGTV and its corporate stock holders or the Games Makers themselves._

_Of further note it has also been bought to our attention that last weeks sponsor is in fact RueThisDay and not, as we said, RueTheDay which is itself a separate entity. Oops our bad._

* * *

**Chapter 8: The Cocky Gambler**

_Claude Winters, age 18 (D4 Male)_

_Dyes his hair. Today's style: Brown with blue and red streaks_

"Get up!"

I scrunch my eyes tighter and mumble something about school. I'm not sure what but it doesn't matter. It must be like, what, an hour since I fell asleep and my head feels like someone's crashed a steamer into it.

"I said get up!" The insensitive voice roars. I groan and roll over, clutching at what I'm pretty sure is sheets but could be a bra. I dunno, neither would surprise me. All I know is this ain't my bed, but then again thats a given. I never wake up in my own bed.

"Earth to douchebag," The voice shouts, and I feel my world shaking as the mattress I am lying on is lifted and tipped over, "Get up!" With that he tips me on to the hard stone floor, and I look up to see Baratt Pisces glaring down at me.

"Hey Baldy!" I chirp, my voice still slightly husky from tiredness, "'Ow's it goin'?"

Old Baldy grits his teeth and touches his head with one hand. Barratt's a bit sensitive about the scar that runs the length of his head and meant it had to be shaved, so he hates my nickname for him. I don't care it's his own fault he got it. He jumped into a fishing boat on a dare when he was twelve and they needed to remove a hook from his head. Sure I didn't stop him when he went for it, but that's hardly my fault. I mean it's his life, who am I to say he shouldn't do something if he feels like it?

But man, some people have no common sense.

"How's it going?" Baldy splutters, "How's it going?"

I wince as his roar cuts through my skull like some sort of power drill.

"Yeah that's what I said. What are you a parrot? And could you be a little quieter?" I grimace, getting to my feet, dropping the quilts from around me and strutting over to the dressing cabinet, where my clothes lie, "Hung over here."

Baldy yelps and covers his eyes as I pull on a pair of boxer shorts.

"Problem?" I chuckle and he mutters something, "Yeah, whatever. Look, unlike you I don't 'ate 'ow I look. Got a razor?" Baldy motions to the en suite bathroom, "Thanks, man."

Opening the door I look around. I can't see a razor, but there's a devilishly handsome guy grinning back at me.

I stand and inspect the Adonis of the District for a minute. Hair's kind of messy but I make it work. Still blue and red, might want to get that changed. I've been meaning to ask my folks for some cash so I can get it re-dyed. There's this one Peacekeeper chick, Val, who sells dyes on the market when her boss ain't looking, sometimes gives me discounts.

Other than that everything's pretty much the same. Got all my teeth and haven't got any more tattoos. Cool.

I find a razor in one of the draws, but one of those ones that girls get if they can afford it or they have connections in the Capitol, not a proper one.

"Hey Baldy! What do you expect me to do with this, shave my legs?"

"Don't call me that." Baldy grimaces.

"Screw you." I retort, "Seriously, where's the real razor?"

"We've only got one. This is my sis' room."

I stare down distastefully at the razor before throwing it onto the bed, "So big night last night?"

"Yeah." Baldy grins, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Who did I score with?" I ask, watching with a coy smile as Baldy's face falls, "The blond one with the legs or the ginger with the nice ass?"

"Come on Claude," Baldy grumbles, "Those are my sisters..."

"Chick A or chick B? Simple question," I repeat, pulling up my patchwork jeans and throwing on my jacket. I stash his sisters' comb in a pocket. I'll give it back when I feel like it.

"My sisters have names, Claude."

"Sure they do," I chuckle, slipping the small rings, which are actually the hooks off some bait I snatched from the docks, into the piercings in my lip and ear, "A and B."

"Ariel and Scylla."

"My names are better."

"Why you... you..."

"Ain't gonna tell me which one it was huh? Nevermind. Don't care. I tell ya though, whoever it was is gonna be telling their grandkids 'bout last night, yeah. How they spent it with _the _Claude Winters. You knew how to present yourself, Baldy, you could be as lucky..."

"Dude!" Baldy advances on me and jabs at my chest, "Shut up!"

"Aww, someone didn't get their beauty sleep."

"Reapings are on in a couple hours," Baldy snaps before composing himself and taking a deep breath, "Never mind, never mind. Can't let some junkie ruin my big day."

"Want to watch the anger, Balds," I sneer as I pocket my bandanna, placing my hand on his head as I push past him, "You want me out, I'm gone. 'Sides I ain't no junkie, yeah? Just high on life."

Baldy shakes his head, turns militaristicly on his heel and follows after me like a lost puppy. I smile as I step out of the bedroom and rush down into the kitchen.

"Hey, Mrs Pisces," I grin, leaning myself over the woman at the counter, "What you got cooking? Ah, sweet. Mind if I stick around for breakfast?" Not waiting for an answer, I slide into a chair at the head of the table, "Cool, thanks doll."

Mrs Pisces rolls her eyes but grabs another bowl anyway. She knows what I'm like, or at least she thinks she does.

A lot of folks, Mrs Pisces and her stuck up husband included, think I'm no good because I look like some punk. Really they should get to know me. I'm actually a pretty cool guy.

Sure I'm an asshole too, but at least I'm honest about it. Darn side better than guys like the Pisces who swagger about like their Capitol born or something and deserve to be treated better than all of us.

If anything I'm a far better guy than them. At least I try to get on with everyone, instead of sticking my nose in the air, afraid that the people worse off than me carry poor germs or stupid genes or something.

In the doorway to the kitchen, I see Baldy grit his teeth and contemplate murder for what I'm sure can't be the first time today.

* * *

An hour later Baldy's dad finally manages to bustle me out the door, his daughters walking on either side of me tittering excitedly as Baldy struts behind us with about as much dignity as a guy whose sisters are being chatted up can while still glaring flaming dagger-lasers at the guy responsible. Their little brother, Whozits, trots along behind us, oblivious to Baldy's bad mood. Then again Baldy's normally a spineless, arrogant asshole, so I guess he's not acting too different from normal.

"Hey Baratt," Whozits chimes up behind me.

"Yeah?"

"You volunteering this year?"

"Sure am kid," Baldy grins, "Just as long as one of those other rejects doesn't beat me to the stage."

"Yeah!" I call back, "Or if I don't get there first!"

Baldy groans but keeps his cool, "Don't you even think about it. It's hard enough to get up there with just the Careers gunning for the Games. I know, I've tried. Now this year's my last, so I'd appreciate it if you keep your nose out. We Careers don't need some punk bumbling around and muscling in on our territory."

I give Baldy my sweetest smile and swipe my hair out of my dark blue eyes in a manner that makes both of Baldy's sisters, as well as a younger girl who's passing by, swoon slightly. "Hey come on, since when have the Games been Career 'territory'? Last time I looked anyone could join."

"Yeah but no one else has got what it takes," Baldy bristles, "Anyone else who goes down there is done for. We've got the training and the natural ability. Someone like you volunteering would just be signing his own death warrant."

"It ain't that hard," I counter, "The way I see it, you just go down there, show those freaks how good you are at stabbing things and they make you famous. I could do that in my sleep."

"You willing to bet on that?" Baldy sneers.

Now to be fair, I don't actually know all that much about the Games. District Four isn't big on the whole forcing kids to the Reapings thing, since everyone here volunteers anyway. I guess I went once when I was like eight and then just said 'screw it' five minutes in and left. I mean come on, it was just people playing dress up and occasionally waving swords around. No way I was gonna sit through that.

No one really ever talked about the Hunger Games either except for the guys who were volunteering, so it just sort of ended up going over my head.

But this year it's all kids my age have been talking about recently. Everyone wants to know whether I'm going, or why I'm not a Career. They say I'd be pretty good and yeah, end of the day I think I would. I mean I got the looks, I got the charisma. What more could I need?

Sides, volunteering would really piss Baldy off. As if I didn't have enough excuses to crash the greatest party of the year.

"What the hell?" I nod gripping Baldy's hand and shaking it, "Think I might go for it."

"Great, we're throwing a little qualifier before the Games, just to square things up," Baldy sneers, "It's down on the pier if you think you're man enough. We'll see how you really compare to the crème a la crème of the District."

"Your crème'll be brulee by the time I'm finished with ya!" I reply, glad for the first time that I stayed awake for a couple of minutes in that one cookery lesson.

"Sure we will," Baldy chuckles, although I'm certain he doesn't understands the joke, "A punk like you wouldn't last. You've never even worked a day in your life."

I'm not going to lie, that's true, but to be fair the snobbish ponce has never worked either so it's kind of a pot-kettle thing.

"Yeah? You watch me. Nah, seriously, you watch me. 'Cos I'll be living it large up in the Capitol while you're staying here... in your mansion... cryin'."

"We'll see." Baldy tisks at my nonchalance, but my grin disarms him.

We head down to a pier, while Baldy's family head over to the fishing market to get there early before the Reapings start.

The pier itself is packed with weapons, training dummies, the works. Four guys stand around the pier stabbing or jogging with weights or generally subjecting their body to things that I'm way too sensible to. It seems to work on the chicks though, because the pier is packed with them, right the way from kids to women in their twenties, cheering and hollering and bouncing up and down. Most of them are so fixated on these 'Careers' that they don't even notice me checking them out as I pass. The pretty ones I mean, not the gonks. I got standards you know.

As for the Careers, I'm not that interested. The chicks are generally pretty fit but none of them showed up, so instead I have to look at Baldy and these four other lunkheads.

There's Rocco, a blob of meat who can barely string two words together, Baz, a redheaded midget who seems to have a pathological fear of shirts, Mikey, I slept with his girl once (he's fine with it, they weren't dating at the time) and Krill, who's a nice guy, but unfortunately looks like he hit every branch of the ugly tree on the way down and then went back for seconds.

I probably know them better than they know each other. After all, I hang with them all occasionally, mostly so I can look more attractive in comparison. They mostly just stick with their fans, since they think the others are either too posh or too plebeian, whatever that means, to be seen with on any day other than Reapings.

"Hey guys!" Baldy calls as he marches over to them, "Claude here wants a little look in on our training." The other Careers snicker. "Think we should let him?"

"Sure." Rocco stomps up to me, slapping me on the back with such gusto that I almost pitch over, "Up fer weight liftin', eh Claude?"

"Oh you'd like that," Baz rounds on Rocco as he grips my hand rather too tightly and shakes it, "Dumb muscle's all you're good for. Lap of the town should sort the Baz from the boys."

"We should practice swordplay. We are not going to win if we can't kill what we find." Mikey snarls, not even looking up from his target as he rips it to shreds and calls his girlfriend, Whatsername, to bring him another.

"What do you think Claude?" Krill smiles, walking up to me and thumping me on the back just as I am about to catch my footing, very nearly sending me sprawling again, "Why don't you pick something for us to do?"

"No way," Baldy complains, but Baz shushes him.

"Yeah sure," Baz grins, "Claude ain't gonna stiff us. He's safe."

Someone should really tell Baz what a terrible judge of character he is.

"Hmm." I ponder, looking from Career to Career as all eyes settle on me. I grin at the assembled masses and flick my hair. Every eye on me huh? I'm in my element.

I rearrange my patchy jacket so it hangs better on my shoulders and slip my bandanna on to my head. They can wait a minute for my answer.

"So. Let me get this straight." I drawl, really pushing my accent so they can hear the cultured edge to my voice and appreciate my hotness, "You guys want a test that'll make sure you all have an equal chance of getting into the Games 'cos otherwise you'll feel like shmucks for having let yourself get manipulated by the chump who got to do what they do best."

"That's about it," Krill nods.

"Great, same here. I want in too, and I don't wanna lose out just 'cos we ended up, dunno, jumping logs, or whatever Baldy's good at. So 'ow about something that don't need skill? Rolling dice. There are six of us, so we can all pick one side and whoever's number comes up volunteers." With that I produce a die from my pocket, show it to the guys and then pocket it.

"Gambling, eh?" Mikey smiles, throwing his sword down just inches from his girlfriend's feet and stomping over, "It could work."

"And best of all," I smile, "If you lose none of you 'ave to admit you got beat. Just say you got unlucky and go on living your life. Simple as that." I pause for a few seconds to let my words sink in and then step into the center of the circle.

"Right, let's start picking numbers," I declare, "I'll take six!"

The others all nod in approval, muttering among themselves, but Baldy holds up a hand to stop me.

"No you don't." Baldy growls, "You're just gonna roll some weighted die and swindle me out of my time to shine!"

"Sure," I throw my arms up theatrically, "I haven't been that good to you in the past. And yeah that is something I'd probably do. Fair enough. We both want this, it's an easy road to fame and fortune. You don't have to get a job or nothing it's just 'Boom', you're famous." The other Careers tilt their heads questioningly. What can I say, guess I'm an honest guy. It's about the only thing good about me. "So just for you Baldy, I'll choose last."

"Good," Baldy smiles widely, "Then _I'll_ take 6. See you fellas on the Victory tour."

Poor deluded Baldy, I caught him hook line and sinker. If he wasn't such a colossal prick I'd almost feel a tiny bit sorry for him. Maybe.

"Cocky. I'll take 4. Real patriotic like."

"1's a good choice ain't it? If it's weighted for 6 it'll land one a lot right?"

"5."

"Make me 3."

"Guess I'll go with 2 then." I sigh, fishing a die out of my pocket.

People always think a rigged dice only ever rolls '6's, but those people have never gambled. Rigging all your dice like that is stupid. If you keep rolling 6s people are gonna notice. The trick is to roll what you need, when you need it. That's why I rig one die for every number, and guess which number I just selected. "So, who wants t' roll?"

Pushing the others out of the way, Rocco grabs the die off me and I chuckle inwardly. He may be a towering brute but Rocco's a terrible gambler. He couldn't tell a die from a funeral.

With a grunt Rocco hurls the die at the floor.

I don't even have to look at the result.

"Talk about lucky..." Baz mumbles in disbelief, staring at me. Rocco nods while Mikey just seethes quietly.

"Well," I smile, scooping the die up and looking around at the assembled eighteen year olds, "Look who's going to the Games. Better luck next time fellas. Oh yeah. Right." I spin on my heel and slouch away, onlookers backing off in quiet awe as their next Victor passes.

"Claude! Claude!" Krill catches up with me as I make my way towards the west fish market. I give a cry as he grips me by the scruff of the neck and pulls my head down to his level, "I know you're up to something. There's no way anyone gets that lucky."

"Guess I do." I smile, "Come on, it was a two. What idiot fixes their dice to land twos?"

"You." Krill growls, "Now look I'm not gonna sell you out or nothing and I ain't gonna try and volunteer instead of you. But don't try and lie to me, 'cos I'm smarter than you."

Says the guy who only now worked out I tricked him? Well I appreciate is sportsmanship if nothing else.

"OK," I mutter, "I cheated, what of it? You all would have cheated if you could."

"I guess," He nods, "But I gotta know, why'd you do it? You're not a Career, you won't last a day in the Arena. You could've just made sure you lost and walked away."

"Hey it's my last year too. If I didn't go for it now I'd be kicking myself for the rest of my life. 'Sides, TV is TV, y'know? Never gonna get famous if I don't get myself out there."

"Pretty brave, man. I started training for this when I was seven and I'm still a little scared," he blanches, "Hey, um, don't tell the guys I said this, yeah."

"What can I say, I'm not just a pretty face." I grin, barging past him and heading towards an area of the fish markets where a group of eligible looking dames have gathered.

"Name?" A Peacekeeper steps in my way when I've almost reached the girls and I groan. I hate these guys. They're so surly and full of themselves, like they think they're the number one badasses even though they don't have to do anything in Four. Well lets see how he handles a little excitement.

"My name, is Wilhelmina Pumblechook." I answer, forcing my voice in to a high falsetto. Several of the kids nearby snicker. The Peacekeeper doesn't.

"Nice try kid." The man growls, "But I know who you are. You're Winnie and Ross' kid, the folks who own this fish market."

"If you knew who I was why did you ask for my name?"

"Look punk, just get in line!"

"Of course," I smile and bow humbly, before trying to walk past him. He blocks me with his baton.

"Your own line."

"Hey!" I grin, "Who says that isn't my line?"

"Your Y chromosome that's who."

"You saying I look like a guy? 'Cos as a perfect specimen of female beauty I find that deeply insulting."

"Get in your own line asshole!"

"You gonna stop me asshole?" I leer. The peace keeper growls and slams his baton into my stomach, spinning me around and kicking me into 'my line' which it turns out is actually pen for guys my age.

"Would you believe I'm a transsexual?" I ask. He promptly kicks me in the crotch and slams me to the ground before storming away.

I'm guessing that's a no.

I wince as I am helped up by Val, the Peacekeeper who does my hair.

"Sorry about Memor," Val mutters as she grips my hand, "He's just a little jumpy. Just been transferred in from District 7 as an early retirement, they're a little tougher there. You're lucky you didn't end up with a bullet in your gut."

"I wouldn't have minded," I grin, "I wanted to see how far he'd go. You know, piss him off."

"Really? Why?"

"'Cos it seemed like fun," I brag. "Same reason I'm volunteering."

"Ooh. I didn't know you were volunteering," Val bats her eyelashes, "Hot stuff. I'll have to call daddy and get him to send you something sponsory."

"Sure doll. Won't need it though. I'll just sail through the Games like a boss."

"Heh", She chuckles her pink eyes sparkling, "Good luck then, killer. I'll see if I can get assigned to your entourage to help you out."

I smile lazily, watching her backside as she makes her way over to the twelve year olds section. I normally hate the skin tight white Peacekeeper suites but damn does she pull it off. She certainly makes the uniform look a damn side sexier than that Memor guy, and that's still an improvement on what our fat idiot of an escort is wearing. He looks like he's wrapped in a tie dyed carpet.

"Hello ladies & gentlemen! I'm your escort Pizzo Menaleus and welcome to the 102nd Hunger Games!" The Escort screeches from the stage, prancing about in his checkered pink and purple jacket, his neon blue quiff rippling in the salty breeze in a way that makes it look like the queasiest wave ever. Behind Pizzo I can see our mayor perched on his seat, glowering at the sea of teenagers, and a line of young men and women who I can only assume are the Victors. All of them look bored out of their mind. I can relate, this guy's a pain. It must be a billion times worse having to listen to him every year.

It seems to be doing the trick though. "Are you ready?" Pizzo screams as he teeters around on stage and the crowd hollers madly. "I said are you ready?" The crowd bellows its approval. "Well then! Without further ado..."

The entire crowd joins him in one roar as he shouts, "LADIES FIRST!"

"You know the drill!" he plucks a name from the pile, "Syl-"

"I volunteer!"

Before he can even finish the first syllable my vision is filled with the buxom forms of at least a dozen Career babes, jostling and shoving to get on stage. They'd make perfect partners. I certainly wouldn't mind getting all close quarters in a chariot with either of the two at the front, particularly if they were wearing something skimpy.

Which is why it's so disappointing when a tiny girl wrapped in sopping wet pyjamas with what could only charitably be called breasts slips past the two and on to the stage. I watch in horror as the kid beams nervously out over the crowd, her face adorably childish, and my chances of a whirlwind romance with a cute girl don't just die, they get nuked.

Ah well, guess there's always District One. The girls from there are good looking enough and pretty easy from what I hear. Unless they've ended up with a five year old volunteering. Knowing my luck it wouldn't surprise me.

"Well now isn't this a surprise," Pizzo's grin betrays a slight hint of disappointment as he lowers the mic to the girl, "I was expecting someone a little older."

"I was expecting someone taller," the girl retorts and I snicker. A joker huh? I can respect that.

"Ah but of course, age isn't everything," Pizzo seems more confident now, I guess he figures he's got a prodigy, "What's your name my dear?"

"I'm Saspar Aloen but you can call me Pixi!" the girl's voice has a smug edge to it that I didn't expect, like she's rubbing her victory in someone else's face. Seriously, am I only one who's really starting to like this kid?

"The lovely Saspar Aloen ladies and gentlemen! And now on to the men! Fa-"

"I VOLUNTEER!"

That wasn't me. My face falls as Baldy pushes past me, deliberately covering my face with his hand so my cry is muffled, and begins making his way to the stage.

"The hell you do!" I growl, leaping into the walkway and gripping his ankle, sending both of us crashing to the floor.

Out of the corner of my eye I can see the Peacekeepers surging forwards to break us up, but Pizzo holds up a hand to stop them.

"Let's see where this goes," a smile graces his face as he hears the crowd cheer us on. Well mostly they're cheering Baldy, but I don't mind, they'll have plenty of time to cheer me once I've won the Games.

"But sir..."

"This is Four, Memor, they're hardly going to start a riot," Pizzo chuckles, "Besides a little warm up to wet the crowd's appetite is never a bad thing."

Baldy lashes out as I scramble on top of him, gripping my hair, but I have the element of surprise and the height advantage. With all my might I smash his head against the ground, dazing him. Before he can recover I am sprinting on to the stage, hollering 'I volunteer' like a loon with every step. Baldy snarls as a pair of Peacekeepers grip him under the arms and help him back to the pen.

"A little friendly competition," Pizzo smirks, staring at me over a huge pair of pink sunglasses, "Well can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs! So my boy, what's your name?"

"Claude Winters," I beam, reveling in the attention, "Victor of the 102nd Hunger Games!"

Pizzo chuckles, "That's the spirit! And may I complement you boy, on your dress style sense." I think part of my soul just died. "Ladies and gentlemen, your tributes of the 102nd Games!"

* * *

Saying goodbye is the hardest thing I've ever done. I mean, it's not like I'm not glad to be finally getting my chance at fame but, seriously, I never thought I knew this many people. Seeing them all is really quite exhausting.

There's my parent's naturally, who prattle on about how proud they are and shake my hand and cry. Mom says she always knew I'd make a good Career and dad tells me to get my hands on a trident in the Arena.

Next come a whole army of well wishers who I don't think I've ever met and at least seventeen girls who want to profess their undying love for me before I go (hey, I'm not complaining).

I don't know what they want me to say, so I just stay quiet until each finishes and then let them down quick. One of them is just some kid, about the age of my fellow tribute, so I don't even know what she was thinking. How does she even know me? She's probably one of the guys sisters.

Krill, Rocco, Baz and Mikey all come down too. They wring my hand till it's sore and slap me on the back and cheer my name and generally do a whole bunch of things which made them look stupid and feel uncomfortable.

"Give 'em hell from me," Baz grins, still clasping my hand as they are bustled out the door.

"Show 'em what District Four is made of!" Rocco chimes.

"Good luck and keep focused," Mikey smiles sadly, "I don't wanna have to tell my kids that I got beat by some junkie who went out on the first day."

"Told you idiots, I ain't a junkie. Just high on life."

I sit back as the three leave, glad of the moment I have now to appreciate the luxury of my surroundings. However, I've only just managed to relax and let out a sigh, when the door flies open and Baldy storms in.

"You asshole!" He screams, gripping me by the shoulders and pinning me against the wall. "This was supposed to be my year!"

"Don't you lecture me," I retort coolly, "You missed your chance. They pick the dames first you know." Baldy scowls, drawing back his fist and trying to punch me in the face. A Peacekeeper grips him from behind, dragging him back and trying to force him out the door.

"You're dead!" Baldy screams, "They'll kill you first day and if they don't I will!"

I wave as he is taken away, but something about his words resonates. Something I vaguely remember from the million history classes I must have slept through. Isn't the Hunger Games supposed to be like, a Coliseum to torture kids?

"Hey Val," I call to the Peacekeeper who stands by my door and she flounces over.

"Yeah C'?" Val smiles.

"No fraternizing with the tributes." Her partner grimaces, slapping his baton against a gloved hand.

"Oh dry up Julius and stop acting like you're my boss. I mean, God, we're the same rank." Val snarls.

"Only 'cos your daddy bought you a rank," Julius growls, "Most of us start at the bottom you know."

Val rolls her eyes and turns back to me, "What's up killer?"

"I'm gonna have to, like, kill a bunch of little kids in there aren't I?"

Val nods slowly and stares curiously up at me, "Well geez C', we're supposed to call 'em tributes but, yeah, guess so. I mean, you're a Career, it's kinda your job."

"And if I don't kill them they'll kill me." Val nods and I curse loudly. Why the hell didn't anyone tell me this?

"You OK, killer?" Val asks, flipping off her helmet and letting her shoulder length purple and red hair flow out of the bun it is usually tied in as she stares at me in concern, "Got cold feet? Can't say I blame you really. It was the same for me when I got off the train here, thought you were all gonna be crazy thugs you know. Hey, I know what'll cheer you up! You want I could get you something. There's champagne on the train. How's that sound? Bet you never had champagne before."

My eyes light up at the prospect of what I can only assume is alcohol. I mean, why am I standing here wallowing about when I could be getting wasted or laid? I mean sure I'm gonna die in a couple of days but who cares? I bet chicks dig the Careers, so I might as well live it up. Carpe diem or whatever.

"Sham-pain eh? Sounds great." I grin, "And while you're at it could you get an Avox to bring me something big and steaky. I'm sick of fish."

Val chuckles as she steps to one side of me dons her helmet and marches me out to the train. All things considered, I think I'm going to like this Hunger Games.

* * *

_It's another commercial break and that means another..._

_**Nyrro asks: '**__If you were offered help by a Games Maker, would you take it?'_

_A/N: This chapter's actually a bit of an old one as it's actually the first thing I ever wrote for these Games, since I received the tribute a week before starting my prologue. Claude was a surprisingly easy tribute to write and I was able to write most of it in just under two hours. It's been through a couple of revisions since then, but it's basis remains the same as it was and it will forever hold a place in my heart as the tribute that helped me to start my Games again._

_As always don't forget to review and favourite or follow if you like what you see._


	10. D5- The Electric Savant

_**From the Desk of the Games Makers: **__Introducing Aria Willowson, tribute of __ moosegirl45. We're not really sure exactly who, or what moosegirl45 is, but we've narrowed it down to two possibilities, she's either an internet celebrity or some sort of moose based Mutt. We here at Hunger Games HQ hopes that it's the latter._

* * *

**Chapter 9: The Electric Savant**

_Aria Willowson, age 16 (D5 Female)_

_IQ: 155, Social Skills: -1,000,000_

Sunlight comes as an unwelcome visitor, interrupting my train of thought as it forces its way through the lattice of cracks in the roof. Rogue sunbeams dance flitter over the tangled mass of metal and wires that lie on the table in front of me, reflecting into my face and blinding me. Through my watering eyes I catch sight of a girl, her long dark hair tangled and her eyelids turned to greying bags by the long night spent working.

That girl's name is Aria Willowson, mechanic, inventor and jack of all trades tinkerer and repairer. She also happens to be me.

I stare at my reflection for a second before my gaze hardens and I get back to work, carefully pressing a button and jostling each connection into place. As the last switch trips a small light flickers on at the end of the circuit and a high pitched whirring emits from the machine before the whole thing shuts down again. It's not perfect yet, but it's getting there.

District Five is the District of power, the District that any Capitolite should cozy up to if they want to keep their modern conveniences. Sure District Three makes them, but District Five is required for running all the stuff that Three makes and all the factories that make everything else.

In Panem power means power and we have all of it.

Well, most of it. I still can't turn off the sun.

"Morning? Already?" I grumble at the unwanted light source, "Can't you see I'm busy?"

I try to bat it away but it doesn't really work. Photons, after all, travel to quickly to be batted away and they only travel in a straight line.

I read that in a book once. I read a lot of things in books. Like how you can make a magnet by passing electricity through certain metals, or how electrocuting the left hand side of your brain can triple your ability at riddles.

That last one sounds pretty cool. I think I'll try it once I've finished this.

"Aria," a voice calls from the kitchen, interrupting my cognitive locomotive, so to speak, "Breakfast!"

"Just a minute mom," I return, "I'm finishing something."

"You said that half an hour ago," My mother's voice is louder now, and I can tell she's just outside the door. She grips the door handle and yelps.

Sounds like the electrified handle works like a charm. I was worried I'd miscalculated the shocking power. It's good to know I haven't turned mom into fried chicken.

The tacky old lock, on the other hand, shudders and almost falls off. My face falls. I know from experience that it can be opened by a light kick, leaving me to the mercy of the outside world a force which I'd like to avoid if possible.

"Are you going to come for breakfast?" my mother asks from the other side of the door.

"Can I skip it?"

"No."

"Then I'll have it later," I scoff, "I'm busy now."

My mother sighs. "You're always busy Aria, but you need to eat. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day after all."

"I'll eat this afternoon. I'm experimenting. It's very important I not be disturbed." If I'm quick I can set up the batteries I have stashed under my bed (and in my bed and over my bed and in the flowerpot on my windowsill etc.) by lunch and we can get riddling. Actually that sounds a mite dangerous. I'll have to run a few tests and work out the voltage first, just to check it's non-lethal.

"You may not get a 'this afternoon'," my mother replies, "If you aren't ready by Reapings the Peacekeepers will drag you outside no matter how busy you are. I'd recommend you eat something before that happens."

It's Reapings? I grimace and drop my tools. I could swear it hasn't been a year since the last time I was forced out of my room and into a pen to watch some poor sap be dragged off to their death, it must have been ten months tops.

Then again they do say that your perception of time speeds up as you age. I suppose that must just be happening to me.

Besides mom's right, it's not like the Peacekeepers will let me get away with not going to their stupid party and you don't need to be a genius, although I am thank you very much, to work out that a day wasted is a far better option than suddenly acquiring a hole in your head. Although a hole could be useful storage space, depending on where it ended up.

With one last wistful look at the device I was working on I stand to my feet and disable the electrified handle and unlock the padlock, allowing my mother to push open the door and take a look around my room.

"So," she asks taking a brief look at the mass of wires and circuitry that cover the table, "What exactly is it that you're working on."

"Experimenting," I correct, "I'm only 'working on' it once I figure out what I want to make it into. At the moment I'm just taking it apart and working out how they made it, once I've got all that figured out then I can do something with it."

Mom rolls her eyes, "So what was it?"

"It _was_ a camera," I snicker, "I hear there are still Peacekeepers out there looking for it. Ms Escort wasn't exactly happy when it disappeared."

"Disappeared?" my mother grimaces, "Oh Ari, tell me you didn't. Don't you know those things come with trackers."

"I didn't attack it or anything, I just found it like that. Whatever these things run on it had run out. And don't worry about that tracker, I took it out and buried it," I wave my hand nonchalantly, "Besides, Capitol's probably pretty pleased I took it. Now they can blame some 'District conspiracy' instead of having to admit that one of their cameramen was too lazy to change his batteries."

Mom sighs and shakes her head, "Why couldn't you have left well enough alone. You know what they say about curiosity and cats."

"I'm an inquisitive mind."

"You're a compulsive fiddler, and one of these days it'll get you killed."

"You're being melodramatic, mom," I tisk and step passed mom, making my way to the table.

"I just want you to be a little more careful. Just because we're on our own now doesn't meanyou canthrow caution to the wind and do whatever you like. You don't want the Peacekeepers to come looking for their stolen goods now do you?"

I want to remind her that I didn't steal the camera I found it, but I fear that would just start another argument, so instead I take a seat at the table and start eating. My mother sits opposite me, watching me chow down on my breakfast of nuts and milk.

Eating at home is always uncomfortable for me, aided by the silence that comes with it. Mom never seems to eat when I'm around and she spends the entire meal staring at me like this as if she's worried that at any moment I'll either be Reaped or dragged away by Peacekeepers. I admit that it seems like every day we see less and less of each other, more out of my choice than her own, but I really just can't stand eating here. It's not mom's fault, well okay, it is, but not because I hate her.

It's because I hate him, or to be more precise, the picture of him that mom insists on having at the table all the time.

I don't get it. I mean Lynx was a handsome guy, anyone could tell you that, but he's hardly worth remembering. My dad was a drunk, a bully and a womanizer and personally I think it would have been better if he and my mother had never met, even if it meant I had never been born.

It was obvious to everyone, even me when I was a kid, that he was bad news and that he was only sticking around for however long it was until he found someone else. Obviously mom never got the message, because she only ever had eyes for him. I had to put up with years of neglect and abuse from some arrogant, drunken savant and all because the woman who gave birth to me was too smitten to throw him out on the curb and find a less bothersome replacement.

He left us when I was eight (told you so, mom) for one of his work mates, a woman who was both younger and prettier than mom and even now he's gone she refuses to move on and every day I step out of my room I have to be confronted by endless pictures of the slob and the fact that she won't hear a bad word against him.

I can't even concentrate on my work when I have to look at that creep.

"That's enough," I growl, pushing my barely touched bowl of nuts away from me and getting to my feet.

"And just where do you think you're going," my mother's eyes snap up from the picture of him she has on the wall like a trap snapping shut.

"I've got stuff to do."

"Not until you finish your meal you don't," her expression is cold as she speaks. I look away.

Say what you will about mom, but she's still a real battleaxe sometimes. You'd think being tied to a jerk like Lynx Willowson for ten years would have left her a nervous wreck, but if anything it only made her more formidable. She always forces me out of the house every day to 'socialise' (which generally involves me reading and everyone avoiding me) and she never ever lets me go without food.

Doesn't she know that work is more important. I need to get back to that camera in case something goes wrong.

I think I left some crossed wires.

"I'm busy."

"Not today you're not. You sit down here and eat."

I cast my eyes towards the various pictures of Lynx and shiver.

"I'm gonna eat in my room," I say, picking up the bowl.

"No," mom retorts, "You're just going to forget and work on some project like you always do. Eat here at the dinner table There are too many distractions in there."

She's a sharp one. Yet another reason I'm proud to call her my mother, even if I don't agree with most of the choices she's made.

I scowl, "I know mom, but at least there aren't pictures of that bastard on every surface."

The words have come out of my mouth before I know what I'm saying and I find my arm outstretched, pointing at the picture of Lynx. Well, guess I can't pretend I was talking about someone else.

The brain, an ingenious mechanism of connections and impulses that regulates your every action, but sometimes I worked a little less quickly, or was at least a little less easily distracted.

Mom's brain on the other hand takes a little longer to process the information, I can hear the cogs whirring. The metaphorical cogs, obviously, the brain doesn't have real cogs because we're not robots.

Actually it's mostly fat.

Mom blinks a couple of times and for a moment I think I might have broken her. Then she starts screaming.

She roars a bunch of stuff about not talking about my father like that and how he was very important and I should be grateful that he bought me things and let us live in his big house.

I don't really listen as I scurry out the house, bowl of nuts in one hand and a book in the other. Personally the only thing I'm grateful for, I think as I swallow an almond, is that he left as soon as he did. I can't imagine how miserable I'd be if he were still around in person instead of just pictures.

I smile, flicking open my book and beginning to read. It's an interesting book, all about the development of electricity by a man called Theodore Frankus, the first president of what would one day become Panem and a foreigner called Nike Cola Taser.  
Wow, people in old Panem had stupid names. District One level stupid names.

Anyway, I'm trying to enjoy it, but it's hard when people keep walking into me.

It's odd to see the streets so crowded this early in the morning, particularly with so many Peacekeepers about.

Because of the essential role we play in the daily running of everything, the Peacekeepers of Five are notoriously harsh, lucky us. It's not unknown for people to be executed on the spot for yawning at the wrong time or sitting down in the wrong seat. They had a phrase for this sort of thing back in the ancient times before the Capitol existed, they would call it a Police State.

Zumo, our escort, insists every year that it's only for our protection or rather her protection. She wants to make sure we're all safe from the dreadful minority of terrorists who could use our factories to make the whole of Panem into a living bomb, but we know different. It's too keep us in line.

But if someone gave me the choice between doing the Hunger Games every year and dying in a fiery inferno, I'd pick the inferno. At least then it'd be over quickly and no one would ever have to suffer through the Games again.

A pair of Peacekeepers watch me as I scurry passed, as though they can hear my thoughts and are attempting to quell some form of telepathic protest. I shiver and bury my face still deeper in my book.

Five is surprisingly warm for this time of year (I think it's autumn but I tend to lose track, so it could be the end of summer) and the streets buzzing. People idly chat over meager meals and compare notes on their work, doing their best to ignore the Peacekeepers who stand behind every shoulder and watch every move, who are slowly but surely herding the populace towards their pens in the center of the District.

"Power distribution to the north is down a little again. May want to look into..."

"I hear their filming on HR5000's this year. They're a little crisper..."

"Wife packed me a pasty, see? Ain't had nothing but pasties the last month. What you got?"

Nobody starts a conversation with me. Why would they? I'm obviously engrossed in my book and a mousy girl with curly brown hair and a crooked nose, courtesy of Lynx, who accidentally dropped me on my face one night after returning home drunk, is hardly going to turn many heads.

To my left the peace is broken by the sound of a door being kicked down and a small girl, fourteen at most, being dragged from her home. The crowd ignore her cries as she is hurried off by a Peacekeeper as do, somewhat disturbingly, her parents.

It's sick, how the Capitol treats us. I should say something.

I quicken my pace and turn to a new page.

But it's not my job to stand up for people. Taking a broken camera while no one's looking is one thing, but standing up against a Peacekeeper on Reaping day no less is a death sentence.

I walk in a cloying silence, the voices of the people around me blurring into a monotonous drone as I try to concentrate on my book. At some point, I'm not sure when, I drop my bowl of nuts. One moment it's in my hand and the next thing I know I'm clutching thin air, but I don't bother to look for it, instead I keep my eyes buried in the book.

The book's more important to me. After all knowledge is power, and since making Power is what I'm expected to do for my whole life, that means I need knowledge a lot more than I need food.

I'm better motivated when I'm hungry anyway... and when I haven't slept... or washed... or changed my clothes in a week.

You know sometimes I wonder if this is why I don't make friends easily.

The Peacekeepers run me through the usual rat race as soon as I arrive at the Reapings, making me give my name, filling out my forms in triplicate and then herding me immediately into an electrified pen, as if they're afraid I'll get away.

Apparently some of the other Districts don't get electric, but we make so much power that there's enough spare and the Capitol feel we're important enough to deserve it. Lucky us.

"Hey Aria! May the odds be forever in your favour," I turn and find myself standing next to Lila, a tall redhead who works in the same plant as my mom. We met in school, shortly after Lynx left us and her mother died in a reactor breach. It was their loss that bonded us I guess, since I can't see such a cheery chatterbox wanting to be friends with me otherwise.

I nod and go back to reading my book, "Same."

Lila, ever the eternal optimist, ignores my obviously sour mood and throws me a conspiratory wink.

"So," she twitters, "enjoying your day off?"

"Not really," I mutter and she pouts, "I don't like watching children being taken to their deaths."

"Just ignore that bit and you'll do fine," Lila replies.

"You mean like you ignore the Peacekeepers swarming over everything," I retort, exasperated, "Or the electric fences or the systematic slaughter of our District's youth?"

"Exactly."

There really is no response I can give to that response. Anything I say will just justify it.

I'll never understand how Lila can be this dense. I guess that pretending everything's fine is just another way of keeping your head down. Just another way of surviving. I look away and towards the stage.

The mayor stumbles through his speech and his readings, clearly terrified of the veritable horde of Peacekeepers that fill the crowd. He's shaking so much that I'm certain if he shook any more his corkscrew mustache would fall from his face, but he's far from the most nervous person on stage.

Zumo Tarrina, a tiny wiry Capitolite with skin the sickly colour of rotting flesh and fluorescent red hair that stands straight up in a gigantic mohawk, rings her hands together and twitches, whimpering like a scared puppy every time she forces her eyes towards the crowd.

Years of spending time with tributes and victors, the most desperate and bloodthirsty people in all of Panem next to the Capitolites themselves, has left Zumo mortified at the mere idea of District children. Every time she comes here she takes to the stage practically in tears and winces every time she has to touch someone, or even mention her own tributes names.

Not that I feel any pity for her. After all, it was Zumo who bought in the electric fences, so as far as I'm concerned she can go to hell.

"District Five," Zumo's voice is shrill and squeaky as she makes her way to the podium, and her eyes are wild, "Happy Hunger Games and may the odds be forever in your favour."

Her lips split into a weak smile and the crowd responds with a uniform, clearly forced clapping.

"It seems like only yesterday," Zumo says in a plaintive tone, "Since I was hear last looking out at all your smiling faces."

A couple of people laugh derisively and Zumo begins to sweat.

"I'm so happy," she goes on, clearly miserable, "That the Gamesmakers allowed me to return here to this... District to let me escort the next generation of... little celebrities."

The crowd snickers again and Zumo pretends not to hear them.

"This year our Victors in the making will have the honour of being mentored by that world talent," she gulps, "Eddie Copper."

For once I can sympathise with Zumo. Eddie Copper, a foul mouthed mammoth of a woman who's at least as wide as she is tall (which is no mean feet) is best known for crushing a Career to death by leaping on him and least known for her training skill. Her ability to train begins and ends with throwing a weapon into the hands of her tributes and then going to bed and she seems to have taken 'apres moi le deluge' as a moniker to run her life by. Whoever goes up there is doomed.

Zumo appears to have forgotten the rest of her speech, now that she's been forced to acknowledge the existence of her least favourite victor. Without so much as a word she pitches forwards into one of the Reaping balls and snatches up a name, holding it at arms length and squinting at the name.

"Aria W-Willowson."

In an instant the entire world seems to blur and more than ever, the soft muttering of those around me fades out, to be replaced by silence. I can hear my heart beating in my head and the screaming whir of my brain as it tries to process what has just happened. I'm am vaguely aware that my book is lying on the floor, although I don't remember dropping it, open on an artists impression of Albus Einstein. My cheeks feel wet and the salty taste of tears fills my mouth which is hanging open as I stand stock still.

Out of the corner of my eye I see a Peacekeeper stepping towards me through the lines of girls, and I realise with a sinking horror that I will have to walk if I don't want to be dragged.

My body resists me as I lift my foot for the first step, as though the ground is made of wet cement and I'm wearing diving shoes. I shake with the effort of lifting my foot but, as I put it down, it doesn't get any easier, like the ground is retreating away. Each step is met by a deeper silence as around me people shake their heads sadly or simply look away. No one meets my eyes. Even Zumo, as I reach the stage, shivers and looks away, instead opting to reach for the next name.

In my dazed state I don't hear the name being called, all of my attention is going into stopping my quivering lip, but I do hear the outburst that comes after it.

"Seriously?" a voice roars from the eighteens section, "You want to Reap me? You wanna Reap me huh? Well come on, just you try it! There ain't enough Peacekeepers in the world to bring me down!"

People trip and tumble out the way as he tries to punch his way through the group and vault the electric fence. Peacekeepers rush in to subdue their new tribute, who is already contending with his own District mates. A small army of teens crowd so close around the teen that I can't see him, all of them ready to serve him up on a plate to save their own hides.

Sometimes it kills me to see what this District does to people.

"You want to fight me?" the man bellows, "Come on, I can take you!"

He can't. My partner groans as he's hauled to his feet by a pair of Peacekeepers. Still flailing he is dragged to the stage and deposited in front of me. Finally getting a good look at him, I find myself staring at a rougish looking teen, heavily tanned with a wispy black beard and a tight white vest and black jeans that cling to his muscles. He's handsome enough, but personally I prefer my guys with a high enough IQ not to take on the Peacekeepers (as in 2). Also, he looks like a pirate.

"Ah come on!" the man pounds the stage, "You can't do this to me, I got a kid to feed!"

"Stand up, Mr Kil," Zumo pleads, clearly terrified by the boys outburst. He shakes his head, vigorously, letting a couple of tears drip from his nose. Zumo takes a few quick steps back.

"I was having such a great day as well," the boy mumbles to himself. He looks up at the escort with wet eyes and she leaps behind a Peacekeeper.

"G-get him up please," Zumo squeaks, cowering behind the thug, who steps forwards and forces Kil to his feet. "Thank you. District Five!" Zumo regains some of her composure, but she's still shaking and she still won't look either of us in the eye, "Your tributes, Aria Willowson and Kil Brooke. And shake."

Both I and Kil cast a sideways glance at her and then press our hands together, shaking as enthusiastically as two people condemned to death can.

He turns his head to me and our eyes meet. It's the first time someone has looked me in the eyes since I was Reaped and somehow it's calming. Not calming enough to quite stop the tears, but at least calming enough to slow them and to clear my head a little. I smile softly and the boy smiles back through teary eyes.

"Friendly huh?" the boy chokes, trying to bring a little levity to the situation, "Guess my good luck hasn't run out quite yet."

* * *

"I'm sorry."

I look up at my mother and dab my eyes, before staring back at my feet.

"For what?" I ask, "You haven't done anything."

"Exactly," she grimaces, "I should have been a better mother"

"You weren't a bad mother," I chuckle, but the noise sounds pathetic to my ears, more like a choke. "If anything I was a bad daughter. I was reckless and stupid and I should have got out more, made more friends."

"You were not a bad daugher," she admonishes, "But I admit it would if been nice if you'd gone outside a little more. You must have spent half your life in your room with that damn electric lock. And people said I'd have trouble keeping you away from all those stupid parties."

"I'm sorry we never talked," I sigh, "Maybe if I'd been a better daughter I wouldn't be in this mess."

"It wouldn't have made any difference" she shakes her head, "Besides, we're talking now. Is there anything you want to talk about?"

"Not really. I'm just glad we get to, you know, talk, I guess," I sigh, "I'm not really good with words."

"Funny. I was when I was your age," my mother responds, "I even considered becoming a poet before I met your father."

There's a moment of silence between us.

"I wrote this for you," she smiles sadly and passes me small folded piece of paper, "When you were born. I thought, I don't know, if anything ever happened to you you could look to it and it might help."

I unfold the scrap and stare down at the scruffy cursive writing that fills its yellowy grey form. The paper is certainly old, thin and rough like cobweb and covered in a network of small creases and lines. Despite this, I'm surprised to find that there is barely a rip or tear in it, even around the edges. Keeping it so neat for such a long time must have been a nightmare. She would have had to be very careful.

"You kept this for me?"

"Who else?"

There's a moment of silence between us and in it I know what I need to say. I have to seal the wounds that this mornings argument made. I don't want the last memory I have of my normal life to be an argument.

I'm never going to see her again after all.

"I'm sorry," I croak, feeling the tears breaking again as I speak, "I shouldn't have called Ly- dad a bastard. You c-c-could have done so much better or found someone, anyone else, to be with and you'd be happier than you are now. I just- just can't understand why you can't get over him."

This time it's mom who looks down at her feet. She stays like this for a long time, until our time together has nearly run out. When she looks up again her eyes are wet and her face streaked with tears but there is a smile on her face and she steps towards me and wraps me in a hug, pulling me as close as she can.

"Neither do I," she whispers, stroking my cheek as she walks away and leaving me in the dark.

* * *

_'Hi, Nyrro here with a very special deal for you at home!_

_Tired of just watching the Games at home? Hate that moment when your favourite tribute gets that oh so avoidable knife in the gut? Well fear not for we here at the Games have heard your plight and created a brand new way to sponsor your favourites. Here's how you do it. Simply keep a track of your points (we here at the Games will keep track too) and once you have enough send a review or a PM with the item you want to send and who too. We guarantee delivery as soon as possible.'_

_**How you get points:**_

_1 point for each review_

_1 point for each Nyrro Asks question answered_

_**Item Prices:**_

_**10 Points- **__tiny items (one bar of chocolate or box of raisins, box of matches, any clothing etc.)_

_**20 Points- **__small items (small weapons, medicines, food for one tribute, small sack, blankets or pillows etc.)_

_**30 Points- **__medium items (most weapons, food for two tributes, sleeping bags or 1 man tents, rucksacks etc.)_

_**40 Points- **__large items (big or dangerous weapons such as huge axes or any guns, food for a whole alliance, larger tents etc.)_

_**100 Points- **__call a banquet (every living tribute gets sent a goody bag of stuff they need)_

* * *

_A/N: Sorry all for the huge delay between this chapter and the last. For the last week and a half I've been helping at a kids camp with no internet and no time to write, so I couldn't really get anything out for the weekend._

_In terms of the long awaited sponsor list, I've come up with something that I think will work. The items are pretty expensive, because I still want people receiving items to be a rare event, but there are almost fifty chapters before we even get to the Games (24 reapings and 20 or so pre-Games chapters) so there's plenty of time to rack up the points._

_Good luck!_


	11. D5- The Lucky Rogue

_**From the Desk of the Games Makers: **__Disclaimer: the following tribute is __here BecauseOfKillianJones and as such comes with a variety of health risks. Overexposure to the tribute may cause headaches, acne, loss of appetite, hair loss, nervous twitches, piqued interest, rage induced vomiting, joy induced vomiting, marriage, retroactive continuity, spontaneous conception, death or enhanced death. If you suffer any of these while supporting this tribute, review or contact your local Games Maker immediately._

* * *

**Chapter 10: The Lucky Rogue**

_Kil Brooke, age 18 (D5 Male)_

_More Cassanova than Cassanova (Chrysler)_

Am I the luckiest guy ever or what? I mean, sure being born in District Five ain't the luckiest what with the Games and the poverty and the like, but I make it work. I've found a cushy job that doesn't require much knowledge about circuits or power or such, which for District Five is an achievement, even if the salary it pays is rock bottom.

And guess who gets free meals at the best cafe in District Five. No one but the Brookster.

Well OK it's not a proper cafe, more just a bakers with uncomfortable plastic tables and chairs outside, but it's still the best in the District. And it serves coffee! I mean come on man coffee! Where else, other than maybe District One, is a guy gonna get proper coffee!

Some days I just like to sit here for hours and watch the world go by, but not today. Today I'm not interested in the cafe, even if it does have coffee, I'm here for the house next door, or to be more specific the very special lady who lives in that house.

Her name is Bianca Mave. She's my girl, she's on her own and it's Reapings day. She needs me to be there for her.

"Come on baby!" I rap on her window for what must be the fifth time, "I've been out here twenty minutes! You coming out or what?"

There's no response. A less attentive boyfriend would assume Bianca were asleep, which is probably what she wants me to think. She's not of course, she's always been an early riser and Jorge isn't the type of kid to let her sleep in. She's gotta be awake by now and I know she's listening.

"B' I know you're awake! Just get up already!"

Silence.

"Come on, how am I supposed to spend the day if my girl ain't with me? You know I don't wanna spend Reaping day alone! It'll make me look like a right loner!"

The silence continues.

"Okay that's it, I'm gonna sit out here 'til you answer me!"

Still nothing.

"I mean it," I cross my arms pointedly, just in case she's watching me through the curtains, "I ain't going!"

From the depths of her room I hear a familiar groan.

"You really are that crazy aren't you?" Bianca says in a hoarse whisper.

"You know it!"

"And you think the 'Keepers are going to let you just sit the Games out?"

"You think they're gonna let you sleep through 'em? Scratch that, d'ya think Jorge's gonna let ya? You should have fed him and burped him by now! I mean come on, I'm gonna sit around and wait for you but he ain't!"

"Ugh," I smile victoriously as my bleary eyed beauty appears at the window and leans down, "Just pass me up something yeah."

"Mocha good?"

"Bit expensive, just pass me a regular coffee."

"You got it, oh lustrous one!" I wink, reaching up and handing her a small styrofoam cup.

"Thanks, oh lustrous moron," B' replies, mimicking my own hamminess, "Seriously, what got you so wordy this morning? Found a dictionary."

"Nah, thesaurus, thought I'd need to get good at speaking since I'm, y'know, gonna be teaching Jorgey how to pretty soon and I don't want my kid growing up a dumbass. Anyway, what do you think of the new look?" I spread my arms theatrically, "Been growing the beard forever. I'm going for the whole hot dad slash cool uncle look."

Bianca looks me up and down, taking in the tight vest and even tighter jeans that (barely) cover my rippling muscles, and inspects my new ponytail and soul patch combo.

"Could have fooled me," she smirks, "It looks more like pirate too far from the sea."

"You know that's what Bae' and Em' said," I chuckle relieved that she seems normal, "Pair keep asking me when they're shipping me back to Four."

She laughs and I am suddenly hit by a wave of unease.

When you've been dating a girl for as long as I have you start to spot clues that key you in to how she's feeling. Some people say it's the way they kiss, or how they walk, a friend of mine, Leo Hunter, even swears he can tell how his girlfriend is feeling by the way she sneezes.

For me though, it's always been her laugh. Bianca has a beautiful trill of a laugh, real melodic and full of emotion.

And right now that emotion is nervousness, with a slight tinge of despair.

"What's wrong?" I ask, raising my coffee to my lips and taking a sip.

She stops and stares at me quizzically, "What do you mean?"

"Your laughing weird," I reply, "And you're doing the thing."

"I'm not," she shakes her head.

"You are."

She looks down at her coffee which, rather than drinking straight away like she normally does, she's been stirring with her finger. She winces, as if only now realising that coffee is kinda hot. In an attempt to hide her nervous tick she fumbles the cup and knocks it over. Liquid arcs towards me, splashing down my vest and turning the pristine white into a murky transparent and slightly steaming mess. Fortunately the drink is lukewarm at best. What? It's coffee at least, you want good coffee, you go to the Capitol.

Overall I don't think it's broken my luckiest guy ever award, wet t-shirts are way better than chest burns and I still kept a hold on my coffee so I'm counting it as a win.

"Oh God, sorry," Bianca bites her bottom lip sheepishly and leans out the window in attempt to reach me and dab of some of the coffee, but I hold up a hand and stop her.

"I'm good," I wink, "Got a spare in my pack. Just gotta change. Mind letting me in? We could talk."

"I dunno..."

"Well I could change out here." I tilt my head to a gaggle of girls sitting at a table opposite and let B's paranoia do the rest. I'm inside before I can say another word.

As soon as I'm in the tiny two room apartment where Bianca lives I tug my vest over my head and toss it on the bed, giving the lovely Ms Mave a quick kiss hello before getting down to business.

"Mind telling me what's got you all twitchy?" she opens her mouth to respond but I cut her off, "and don't go telling me you're fine 'cos you ain't."

"I've just... been thinking about things," she grimaces.

"Yeah I do that sometimes. Generally doesn't make me wanna risk sleeping in on Reapings. What you been thinking 'bout B'."

"I don't really want to talk about it."

I shrug, "Can't help if you don't say anything. Problem shared is a problem halved and all that."

"Well I was," she pulls a face and looks away before whispering, "Thinking about Chris."

My face falls. "Ah."

Chris is, err was, B's big brother, a mammoth of a guy ten years older than me and seven years older than B'. I don't remember much about him, not even what he looked like, but what I do remember is he was always there for us if we needed something. Life was simple when we were eight, but life was good and we wanted for nothing. Even the Games didn't bother us, they were an evil we weren't old enough to understand and only knew because of how much our parents hated them. We were protected from it all.

Until they took Chris.

Bianca has, err, had a few issues shall we say, since he died. Angry issues. Chris was her world, her idol and watching him die in the Bloodbath must have been a waking nightmare. For a while after she wouldn't talk to anyone, she just barricaded herself in her room and didn't come out for days on end. Smashed a bunch of stuff too I hear. Her parents bought her food, but I don't know if she ever ate it and I don't think she let them come in.

I still remember the night she let me in through the window. I think I might have been the first person she opened up to.

I don't know why she thought I was special enough to be let in when no one else was, whether it was something I said, or she thought I was a cute kid, or if it was because I idolised Chris almost as much as she did, or if she just needed someone and I was there at the right time.

I just sat on Chris' old bed that night with Bianca holding me, wrapped in her brother's baggy old vest. The two of us cried until the tears ran out and our throats and eyes were sore, but it made things better. It was like being sad together somehow made us happier and so I started coming back most nights, because kids are stupid like that and so are emotions and it just felt right. Before I knew it I was twelve and we were dating on and off in a relationship born out of mutual grief and a want to support one another and the rest, as they say, is history.

In the other room Jorge stirs, which B' takes as an excuse to leave. She doesn't get far, since the apartment's only two rooms, and I find her standing over Jorge's crib and holding the boy to her chest, tears streaming down her face. I let her cry for a few minutes and then, wiping my own fledgling tears on my vest before she can notice them, step over to her and pull her into a tight hug.

"I'm sorry," she chokes out her words, "I-I should just accept this is how things are and move on but... I'm being such a-a selfish idiot and..."

"You're not being selfish," I smile, "I miss him, we all do. But it's been ten years B', and you're not even eligible for the Games anymore. You need to move on."

"I think about him all the time."

"So do I," I feel my voice crack, but I swallow it, "So do I B'."

"But it's not just that," she sniffs, "Chris was eighteen when he got Reaped and what if... what if..." She can't finish, but she doesn't have to, I know what she's going to say.

_'What if you get Reaped this year_?_'_

"I'm not going anywhere B'," I tell her, "Come on, you know I'd never leave you and Jorgey like that."

"You won't have any choice," she whispers, "If they Reap you-"

"I'll kill 'em. Seriously B', you're talking to Captain Lucky here. There's no way I'll get Reaped and, hell, even if I do I ain't letting them take me. I'd rather die."

"You might."

I stare down in to her sorrowful eyes and feel my own eyes prickle.

"I promise you," I try to make sure I sound confident as I speak, "I ain't gonna get Reaped, and I'm gonna stick around, in the land of the living, for you and Jorge for however long you need or until I forget your next birthday."

Bianca looks up at me and then down at Jorge, who grips my finger in his pudgy little hand and squeezes it, burbling contentedly. A sliver of a smile appears on her face and she wipes her eyes with one hand.

"You promise?" I nod and she sighs. "Well fine, but if you get Reaped you're on diaper duty for the next millennium and a half mister."

"I can live with that. Replacement coffee?"

"Replacement coffee," she nods, passing Jorge over to me and opening the door, stepping outside to the cafe.

I notice a couple of irritating things as I step after her into the quiet streets. The first is that the wind has picked up and is blowing the more unsavory power plant fumes into my face, the second a trio of Peacekeepers who have taken a table adjacent to ours while I was talking to Bianca. Their eyes glint as they spy for even the faintest whiff of rebellion.

I ignore both of these, can't have them ruining a nice day out with my GF and my boy. Instead I focus my attention on Jorge, who is starting to slip a little. He might be upside down too. I haven't quite got the knack of holding babies yet.

A lot of people say that babies are ugly and well, they're right. Babies are smelly, noisy, bulbous headed poop monsters that never give you a moment of rest.

All except my boy that is. Jorge is like bizarro baby, the kind of baby that even a guy like me counts themselves as blessed to get. He's very contented, barely ever cries, doesn't bite, still poops a lot but hey he's only human. He's got just the right mix of looks to make him the handsomest kid ever, her skin and eyes and teeth and nose and face and lips and my hair, which is starting to grow at the top of his head in a little clump. When he laughs it's like listening to a choir of angels sing as they descend from heaven and when he cries its like listening to a choir of angels wail as broken glass pierces your ears, but at least he don't cry much.

And B's worried I'll be going to the Games? Ha! Fat chance I'd let them take a sweet life like this away from me.

We sit in silence for a while as we wait for B's new coffee to arrive and to pass the time I play, or rather attempt to play, pattycake with Jorge. He isn't much good at it, probably because he's too young to really know how to play, and my inexperience doesn't help much. I haven't played pattycake with anyone since my little sis was like five, and she's seventeen now, so I'm a bit rusty to say the least.

Finally the coffee comes and I'm able to finish the torturous game and turn my attention to Bianca, who is laughing in that special way that lets me know she's actually happy and not just pretending.

"Ah c'mon B'," I grin, placing Jorge on my lap and bouncing him, "I'm not that bad."

"No no," Bianca shakes her head, "Well OK yeah you are, but that's not why I'm laughing. It's just good to see my two boys doing something together."

I wince, feeling a pang of guilt at her words. While I'm sure she didn't mean anything by it, I'm well aware that I haven't exactly been super dad. You can't really blame me for being scared I guess, I mean after all I was seventeen when I first found out that my girlfriend was having a kid and neither of our parents were particularly pleased. Heck Bianca had to move. I helped her find this place, which Turing, the guy in charge of the cafe let her have for free in honour of us being his best customers, but I didn't ask if she wanted to stay with me. God, it's a wonder she's stuck with me at all.

Even now that I'm trying to be a father I'm still a little incompetent and I still haven't got the money for that place that B' wants to live, but I don't think B' minds. Honestly I just think she's happy I'm here. I'm happy too, but it'll be a long time before I can forgive myself for being such a cowardly waste of space early on.

Over the table from me Bianca finishes her coffee and stands to her feet, turning towards the clock tower and checking the time.

It's ten minutes to the Reapings. She steels herself and turns the other way as the Peacekeepers rise and start escorting, by which I mean dragging, people towards the exits.

"Do you think you could walk down with me," she asks, "Just in case."

I nod and stand, wrapping my hand around hers and using my other arm to clumsily support Jorge and carry my backpack. She shakes her head at me and wraps her own free arm around Jorge, taking him before I drop him.

"Thanks," I grin sheepishly.

"No problem Cap'n," she grins, tugging my beard with one hand, "Now lead on, we're gonna be late."

The square is as gloomy as always when we get there, and getting to our places is made even more depressing than usual because it's Jorge's first year, meaning we need to get him registered.

"Jorg," the Peacekeeper mutters as we pass, "What kinda dumb name is Jorg anyway? Sounds like some sort of troll."

I bite my tongue. I ain't too happy about having my creative spelling of the name George criticised by the guy who's probably named Martellus or Flava or something flowery like that, but I know better than to argue back. I may have devil may care good looks and roguish charm but I don't have a gun, and that's about the only thing that could help me if I got into an argument with a Peacekeeper.

I feel kind of isolated once I've been allocated my place. I mean it's not like I don't have friends my age, Leo and Bael are right next to me and I'm within spitting distance of my sister Rhea and her friends, but the people I really want to be able to keep an eye on are behind me. I keep shooting glances back at Bianca, who looks slightly whiter than she was before we got here and is rocking Jorge backwards and forwards nervously. I want nothing more than to wrap my arms around her and keep reassuring her that everything will be all right. In District One I hear they sometimes let you do that, but unfortunately our escort's paranoid, so we have to follow the letter of the rules round here.

"District Five," I begrudgingly turn my attention away from my girl as Zumo, our stick thin escort, speaks her voice shakier than a leaf in a high wind, "Happy Hunger Games and may the odds be forever in your favour."

She's trying to smile but her attempt is slightly too large and strained, it's obvious she'd rather not be on stage.

I will never quite understand why Zumo became an escort, after all she clearly hates any form of human contact, or at least District kids. Personally I think she just took the job to watch us suffer but with Capitolites who knows? She could actually just be forced into doing it by the Games Makers because someone somewhere thinks Ms Zombie Stick Insect is hot.

"It seems like only yesterday since I was hear last looking out at all your smiling faces."

I chuckle slightly. I don't know where she thinks she is but no ones smiling in District Five. Even I'm not grinning and I'm like the smiliest guy I know.

"I'm so happy that the Games Makers allowed me to return here to this," she stalls, "District to let me escort the next generation of little celebrities." Zumo shudders as she finishes her sentence and goes on to inform us that our mentor this year will be Eddie Copper.

I take a quick look back at Bianca who has gone as white as a sheet and is clutching Jorge desperately. Eddie Copper is not her favorite victor. True she didn't win the year that Chris was entered, but she won the year after and, for B' and me, it was the greatest crime of all. That Chris, a loving young man who was at least as strong as Eddie and a billion times as dedicated could die in the Bloodbath but that whale of a woman could win was disgusting for both of us, and her continued bravado and cocky attitude has done little to shed B's hatred of her.

There's a brief silence, in which Zumo looks even more uncomfortable than usual, before diving into the first Reaping ball like a fish into a pond.

When she finally comes up for air she inspects the card and calls out the unlucky girl's name.

"Aria Willowson!"

There's a sound of something dropping to the floor and then, very slowly, a girl steps out of the sixteen's section. There are tears running down her cheeks and her entire body appears to be shaking as she forces her way up the step. I take a moment to inspect the girl, a pale, thin kid with frizzy brown hair and dark eyes, but I look away when she glances my way for a second. I don't want her thinking I'm oggling her. This must be uncomfortable enough already without feeling like everyone's gawking at you. Besides, Bianca would kill me.

Zumo takes a step away from Aria as she takes the stage, repulsed by her presence, before dipping her head into the next ball and gripping for a name.

Around me everyone holds their breath and fixes their eyes on the woman. I don't mean to brag, but I don't. Instead I stand there cool as a cucumber in winter, slouching slightly with one hand in my pocket and the other stroking my soul patch.

It's a bit of an act since I don't want B' worrying for me, but even considering that, I'm not as worried as everyone else.

I mean I'm not going to get Reaped. I'm way too lucky.

"Kil Brooke!"

No way.

I mean just... No way.

"Seriously?"

It can't be me, it's impossible. I mean, sure I took out a few tesserae to support B' that she doesn't know about but everyone has tesserae in Five, it's not like I did anything that made it any more likely that I'd be Reaped. I had like thirteen or fourteen slips in there, that means that I had less chance of it being me than some of the twelve year olds.

I-I'd just got my life on track. I wasn't hurting anyone or nothing. I was just living a happy life with my girl and my kid not bothering anyone. Sure I've made some mistakes but I don't deserve to die.

But this isn't about what I deserve, it's just freak bad luck. It's as if the world is paying me back for all the good luck I've had. Like the Capitol doesn't like the fact that me and B' had just built ourselves a happy life and felt they owed me some misery.

Well if they want me they can have me.

And by me I mean my fist.

As the first Peacekeeper closes in I lash out, catching him in the lip and sending him tumbling.

"You want to Reap me?" I roar, bouncing like a boxer as I hammer the guy in the stomach sending him to his knees, "You wanna Reap me huh? Well come on, just you try it! There ain't enough Peacekeepers in the world to bring me down!"

Turning, I set my sights on B' and rush towards her. All I have to do is get to her I tell myself, and run. All the Peacekeepers are here so noone'll get in our way. There's this lose patch in the fence me and the boys made when we were kids, before we realised there was nowhere to go even if we did escape, we could fit through there easy. We could get out of here, just her, me and Jorgey and we'll never come back. It'll be hard to do, but it's better than the Games. Anything's better than the Games.

A hand grips my bare arm as I reach out for her and I'm surprised to feel the warmth of skin as opposed to the cold glove of a Peacekeeper. I turn, catching sight of Leo.

I've known him for years. We grew up together.

"C'mon man," I plead, "I gotta get outta here. I got B' an Jorge! I can't..."

Leo shrugs, "Someone's gotta get Reaped," he mumbles and drags me back.

"Not me man. Not me," I shake my head, "I ain't done nothing to nobody. Come one Lee you know me, I'm Mr Harmless. Just lemme go."

"Can't," he sighs, "You got any idea what the Peacekeepers'd do to me..."

"But we're buds," I plead, still struggling, "You can't just let 'em..."

"Better you than me," he grimaces, hanging his head.

Well if that's how he wants to play.

I twist my arm forwards and bring my other elbow into his face, dodging another pair of hands as I go. A foot trips me, a sea of arms engulfing me as I try to clamber away.

"You wanna fight me!" I bawl defiantly as I push onwards, "Come on, I can take you!"

My muscles scream their last as the tide of bodies overpowers me, lifting and tumbling me this way and that as the Peacekeepers move in. Before I know it I lie crouched on the stage.

There's only one option left to me now, and it's not pretty. I tried luck, I tried fighting, now I gotta beg.

"You can't do this to me," I pound the stage and reach out towards the bony escort's legs, "I got a kid to feed."

Even to me I sound pathetic, on my last legs, and it's really no surprise when the escort dodges me and commands that I be dragged to my feet.

"And I was having such a great day as well," I mutter. It's really the only thing I can think of saying.

"Thank you. District Five!" Zumo caws, "Your tributes, Aria Willowson and Kil Brooke. And shake."

Aria's eyes pool with tears as I clasp her hand and her thin legs shake under the weight of her own body. She forces the tiniest smile and I feel a stab of pain in my chest.

"Friendly huh?" my own smile is just as weak as hers as I try futilely to lighten the mood, "Guess my good luck hasn't run out just yet."

* * *

I jolt as Bianca's cold hands pass over my head, caressing my cheeks and running around to the back of my neck. She pulls back and I look down, seeing a ring of large wooden beads with flower patterns on it hanging around my neck.

"This is my token right?" she doesn't answer, but I know that's what it is. It's what Chris wore for his Games after all.

B' presses close to me again and I find myself wrapped in another of her seemingly endless hugs, Jorge pressed against my chest as she cries deeply.

This is all she's done since she got here, cried and hugged me. She hasn't spoken yet, but she doesn't have to, I've got enough of a mouth for both of us.

"God B'," I sigh, stroking her hair, "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I shouldn't be doing this to you and Jorgey, it ain't right. I mean, I tried to get to you but there was just nothing I could do. I just- just wasn't strong enough..."

She continues crying.

"I shouldn't 've promised. It was dumb," I sigh, "I jinxed it. If I'd just kept my mouth shut we wouldn't be in this mess. You wouldn't have to... God, I'm so sorry for making you go through this again, I just..." I don't know what to say to her.

We stand speechless for a moment, both of us sobbing quietly, before I try something else.

"I got you, uh, flowers by the way," I smile forlornly, "There out there in my bag somewhere, probably been crushed to mush by now. Was gonna give them to you at dinner, you know ask you out on a date and junk to make you feel better. Guess I kinda, heh, won't be now.

"But I'll try and make it home you know, so you don't have to worry 'bout me," she's beginning to shake, her body raked by sobs, "I-I mean I got a shot ain't I? I've got the looks. I've got strength too and- and people'll remember me 'cos I made an ass of myself at Reapings. And I-I've been practicing a little with a sword, you know. Thought it'd be useful if the Peacekeepers ever came for us. Guess they sorta did..."

Her silence is starting to worry me.

"Come on baby," I plead, "Say something please. I just gotta know that your OK. Come on say something. Anything. I don't care if you scream at me or hit me or whatever for being such a jackass I just- just tell me what's on your mind 'k. I..."

"Kil," her words catch me by surprise and I completely forget where I was going as she stands on her tiptoes and gives me a quick kiss on the lips. She pulls away and wipes her eyes, staring determinedly at me, "Kick their butts."

With that she takes Jorge from me, gives me a surprisingly triumphant smile and hurries out the door.

As I stand alone and bewildered a thought occurs to me that makes me chuckle despite my terrible predicament.

"Women," I mutter to myself, "Don't think I'll ever understand them."

* * *

_'Hello ladies and gentlemen and welcome back to the quiz with no wrong answers (except that one). Yes it's time for another installment of..._

_**Nyrro asks:**__ Which District/ tribute is your least favourite and why?'_

_A/N: Well folks it's been a bit of a hectic time for me at the moment, since I've been preparing for my first year at Uni and I'm going tomorrow, but I managed to get another chapter out before I went. Took me forever to get it up though, since I write these on an old netbook with no internet and my memory stick broke, so this one's been in limbo for ages.  
_

_As always a little about the tribute. I actually wasn't sure about Kil when I started writing him, but I grew to love more the more I wrote. There are a few differences between him here and the form, which called for Bianca to be pregnant, not to have already given birth, but I decided the dad aspect of the character gave a unique feel to him and helped him stand out, so I decided a plot relevant age up of dat baby was in order._

_As always don't forget to review. I read every one and getting an idea of what you think really helps me work out which way I want the story to go. Also you get points for it, so it's win-win._


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